


Andraste's Key

by EasternViolet



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: AO3 1 Million, Action/Adventure, Drama, Fantasy, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-06 12:32:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 151,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EasternViolet/pseuds/EasternViolet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry, a mysterious mage recruits an Orlesian scholar to find Andraste's key, a relic with the power to bring down the entire Chantry. Professor Sauniere is instructed to seek help from the Hero of Ferelden, but along the way, gets the unsolicited aid from a certain Champion. The DA world is thrown together when the Scholar, the Hero, an escaped apostate and the Champion, scour Thedas to find this relic and reveal a truth that the Chantry would kill to remain hidden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Connor

**Author's Note:**

> This is somewhat of a sequel to _In Her Mind's Eye_, my first fanfic that features Nuraya Amell, battle-mage, former Commander of the Grey and Hero of Ferelden. I've worked in her back-story within Andraste's Key, but If you are ever lost, feel free to PM me, and I can fill you in, or in the meantime take a look at her Blight story, posted on FF.net. (I am under the same pseudonym) This tale promises to take you to all four corners of Thedas and catch up with some of your favorite characters from Origins and DA2. This is rated M for language and adult themes. 
> 
> This story is in progress and I am fine-tuning and editing the story as originally posted on FF.net. Major plot points will remain the same. It is my goal to refine the writing and remove any inconsistencies that have cropped up in the course of my writing. 
> 
> In the meantime, please enjoy! This is very much a labour of love. All reviews are welcome and appreciated.

His feet were dragging over the stone floor. He quit struggling and let them relax, hoping to prevent his shoes from tearing. Unfortunately, his submission did not relieve the pinching under his arms. Two templars flanked the fifteen year old mage, one on each side. Their armoured gloves dug deep into his armpits, shooting pain through his shoulder and up his neck. This was not Connor Guerrin's first time being dragged to the Quiet Room, but he hoped it'd be his last. Who thought of such a name? Connor wanted to laugh at the templar who said "To the Quiet Room, mage!" No one was fooled by that--call it by its rightful title: the Circle Prison Cell.

Both templars were grumbling, muttering insults and complaints that they had better things to do than discipline miscreant apprentices. They had been complaining to one another, making it clear to Connor that this task was well below their station and not part of their expected duties. He really roused their anger this time. What harm was there in reading? He remembered Senior Enchanter Adler's fury when he had been discovered hiding behind a bookcase reading a tome on advanced demonology. Adler had seized the book and then grabbed Connor by the ear and stormed out of the library.

"You insolent little cur! Wait until the First Enchanter hears about this!"

And what would that doddering old fool do? Tell his parents, no doubt. Connor didn't care.

With all the power they held in Ferelden, they still kept him locked in this Maker-forsaken hole. He was still trying to work out the best form of revenge, and wasn't sure whether a grand escape or graduating as the most preeminent expert on demonology would be the most suitable form. This time, however, Adler was so angry that he handed Connor over to the templars, an act reserved for the most deviant of mages. Senior Enchanters disciplined their young charges and left the templars to their primary duty of guarding the Circle from... Connor was never sure whether the templars were protecting the mages from themselves or from the rest of the world. Until lately, he had relatively little interaction with them. Things had suddenly become interesting. 

Connor knew that he had crossed a line when Adler's face turn red and he bellowed to the templar on guard. "Throw him in the Quiet Room for the night. Next time you fail keep an eye on the restricted section, I shall take up the issue with your Knight-Commander." The templars were sure to take their ire out on him for that comment.

As Senior Enchanter Adler marched ahead of the templars, Connor tipped his head up and peered through his shaggy blonde hair. Adler had a sway in his gait and if he wasn't being hauled down the hallway, he might have made a comment about his feminine charms. When they arrived at the end of the narrow corridor to the door just adjacent to the Harrowing Chamber, Adler stood aside, while the templar on his left loosened his grip, grabbed a key from his belt and opened the cell door. With a heave, the stronger of the two tossed Connor inside, causing him to trip wildly over his robes and fall onto the straw covered floor.

"The First Enchanter will meet with you tomorrow Guerrin. Take some time to think about what you have done." Adler crossed his arms and looked down at Connor, now more frustrated than angry. But what did it matter? Pity was not going to get Connor out of his punishment now, and he faced another long, cold night confined in that small space. A templar held up his hand and concentrated, leaving Connor temporarily incapable of magic. Not bothering to fight back, he just crossed his arms and scowled. It seemed to make them angrier when he did nothing at all.

Sighing loudly, Adler slammed the door and Connor heard the rattle of the key engaging the lock. Immediately, all light angled to darkness.  Lying on his back, he stared upwards, through the inky blackness. The only bit of light came from a slit in the wall, near the impossibly tall ceiling. On a previous occasion, he tried to use the wooden bunk to climb up. While balancing on top of his slop bucket, the window was still a man's height higher. Even if he could fly, it was barely wide enough to squeeze an arm through. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees and rocked.

The problem was that no one understood his need to read books on demonology. All the courses he was forced to take with the Senior Enchanters and Chantry sisters were boring and useless: botany, healing arts, history, and Andrastian theology. None offered him anything useful. Were the Enchanters just waiting for another demon to possess him? The sisters encouraged him to pray to Andraste for protection, but he scoffed at that notion. Why waste time chanting when he could be searching for an answer to his problem? He figured that the Circle knew of some protective ward or counter-spell and he was determined to find it.

He could see the second glances the Senior Enchanters gave him in class, with looks that Connor could best describe as _uncertainty_. They all knew. So did the rest of the mages. And there was that fat kid, Markus, who launched spit balls at him when the instructors weren't looking, whispering _demon fucker_ behind his back. He refused to give any of them the satisfaction of seeing him angry or hurt; he wasn't going to let them win. So he'd sit there and contain his anger; sometimes he wished a demon would just pop out and shut everyone up. Markus was not the sharpest blade in the kitchen and often sounded like a crow at the back of the classroom. _Demon fucker! Deeee-mon Fuuuck-er_!

After a recent botany class, an older girl, with blonde pigtails and a nose to match, followed him down the hall calling out, "Look its Owain's apprentice!" Connor rolled his eyes and marched to his quarters.

As he passed her, she mocked him. "Demon fucker… Filthy blood mage. I hear that Irving is going to make you Tranquil any day now. You'll be just like that drooling git Owain."

The apprentices were all under the impression that he was destined for Tranquility and Connor could no longer tell whether there was any substance to the rumours. He'd rather be possessed again than to be half of a person. The Tranquil always left him feeling uneasy, like they were hardly alive, just a shadow of their former self. Connor grabbed a piece of straw and used a thick stem to pick his teeth. Despite the looming threat of Tranquility, he hated demons more than anyone in the tower—more than he loathed hog-nosed Minna and fat Markus. He hated them more than he hated Adler and the First Enchanter, even more than the Knight-Commander. Demons made his life miserable at the Circle, and they did not even have to manifest to do that.

By the time the demons from Connor's past had stopped torturing him, his eyes had adjusted to the dark. In the corner he spied the waste bucket. He was glad he didn't eat much lunch and wouldn't need to relieve himself anytime soon. He hated smelling his own shite while he slept. Demons haunted him in his sleep and chased him while he was awake. Not real demons, but imaginary terrors that sought to possess him again. The very idea of a demon sent his mind reeling, desperate to find the perfect shield. Why the Circle just wouldn't tell him how he could prevent possession, then he'd study harder and stop sneaking around. Until he could find a way to protect himself, he was walking demon-bait. Maybe the templars were just waiting for another "incident" to annul the Circle once and for all. Bloody demons.

After the first time he was caught in the library, Irving had summoned him to his office and lectured him on his responsibilities to the Circle and how to cooperate with the templars. Connor tried to argue, plead his case, beg for the proper training, but all Irving did was hush him and tell him how he wasn't yet ready.

"It took Nuraya Amell nine years of training to confront demons in the Fade. You've only been here for seven. You're showing remarkable healing talents." Irving said.

Nuraya Amell, Nuraya Amell. He heard that name as often as he heard _demon fucker_. Whenever Irving mentioned it, he wanted to hate her for her righteous reputation, but another part of him couldn't. She saved him from a demon when he was eight. Two months after his exorcism, his parents packed him up and sent him to the tower. He was told that it would protect him from demons, that the mages would keep him safe and train him how to use his powers for the benefit of Thedas. As Connor grew older, he realized his parents had lied and that there was no leaving the tower and no chance to be of benefit to anyone. That's when he started hating his parents.

At times, he wished that Nuraya would have just killed him and left him in the Fade. It would have been far better than this hole. For seven long years he merely existed in the Tower and there would be no Grey Wardens to come and save him. A few months after Connor had arrived at Kinloch Hold, he heard stories about how the Grey Warden mage had deposed Loghain, killed the Archdemon and ended the Blight. For a while, he boasted that he had met the Hero of Ferelden and bragged how she had saved his life. Other apprentices would gather around his bunk at night and listen to his exaggerated stories. Stupidly, he let it slip how a blood mage has trained him in secret and then had to explain how the Hero of Ferelden went out of her way to enter the fade and retrieve him. When his father fell ill, he grew very afraid and begged Jowan to teach him how to heal. His secret tutor refused, saying he was too young and inexperienced. At night as he slept, sweet lullabies wafted in his bedroom, like the seductive smell of jasmine on a warm summer night. Night after night they would float through the halls and behind the walls. Night after night, his searches always came up empty. After weeks of her alluring voice, the singer finally revealed herself, in the form of a little girl, sitting on the edge of his bed, asking him to play. So excited to finally have a friend his own age, they giggled together and told funny stories. Some nights they would play hide-and-seek and she'd always let him win. One night, she told him she had a secret. He followed her to his father's room, where he slept on the edge of death. The girl, so blonde and fair, asked him if he wanted to learn how to heal. Of course he agreed. When she touched his forehead, he knew it was too late. The demon was already inside of him. He didn't remember much after that. Nuraya's face swam in and out of his confused memories, yet there was no recollection of how she destroyed the demon that caused so much rage, so much destruction throughout Redcliffe. What Nuraya did not realize was that she left an angry and broken child, determined to find his place in the world.

Once the other apprentices learned that he had been possessed by a demon, he became the _demon fucker_. The Hero of Ferelden was no longer of benefit to him. Not long after the Blight, rumours started trickling in how she had saved Amaranthine from a Darkspawn invasion. After that, the stories became fewer and far between. Some thought that she had left Ferelden altogether, others whispered that she had gone underground and was working with the Mages Collective to free the mages from the Circle. He had not heard a new story in over three years. She had forgotten about him, just like his parents. Connor stood up, brushed the straw off his backside and paced the cell. Night quickly approached and he was losing what little light remained.

The darkness of the Quiet Room stretched the time, made his mind play tricks on him, made the every sound seem louder and more ominous. Trying to distract his fear of the dark, he took a seat on the rough bunk and studied the stains and graffiti on the stone walls. So much of his time was spent in this cell that every irregularity had become familiar. His favorite was _templr SCUM!_ scratched on the door. Someday he was going to carve his own message, when he came up with the right thing to say.

On the wall behind him, something new caught his eye. Someone had carved an arrow that pointed south. Tracing it with his fingers, he noticed that it was done with care, so it would blend easily with the stone wall and not immediately rouse attention. Jumping off the bunk, he looked underneath and found another carved arrow, this time pointing east. He touched each brick to the right of the arrow, until he could feel a new marking, barely etched onto the surface of the stone, in a corner of the cell that was always covered in shadow. The more he inspected it, the more he realized that it wasn't an arrow-it was some sort of animal. He touched it again, a mabari? he wondered. At the top he could feel three straight lines on either side of the head. Whiskers. A cat, maybe? Crouching down to see if he could at least use his eyes, he leaned on the stone. It moved. The sound of scraping stone startled him at first, but when he recovered his wits, he grew very excited.

Before he could investigate further, a latch clicked from behind. Jumping to his feet, he ran back to the bunk, not wanting anyone to see what he had just discovered. A panel at the bottom of the door slid open and an armoured hand pushed a tray of dinner inside. Connor waited, hoping the templars were satisfied that he was behaving himself. The panel slammed shut without a word. He looked to the centre of the door, just about eye level. There was a panel there as well that the templars would use to watch him take a piss or make sure he was not crafting a weapon from a fish bone. He knew they would continue to watch him, making sure he wouldn't casting a wayward spell, until well into the night.  There would be no approaching that corner for many hours.

The colour of the window was turning light blue, signalling to Connor that it was alreadt dusk. His curiosity drove him mad and the thought of waiting until the middle of the night to investigate the loose brick was as painful as sitting through Sister Dawna's theology lessons. As he resisted temptation, he stared at the food-tray and it occurred to him that the templars would want to ensure that he was eating. Skipping a meal was always a sign of resistance. He set the tray on the bunk and inspected the offering. A piece of bread, a helping of ham, some cooked carrots, a potato and a small tin cup of water. No cutlery. Nothing fancy, but it was enough to fill his belly. Reluctantly he ate and set the tray back in front of the door when he was done. A short time later, the trap door opened and the tray disappeared.

He tried to sleep, hoping to pass the time. He counted the bricks and decided to walk the perimeter of the cell fifty times. All the while, he wondered what was inside the wall. It called to him, just like that little girl had in his room. Maybe someone stashed a weapon in there, or maybe some brandy. It could be nothing at all. He decided if he discovered nothing but a loose brick, he'd just be glad it helped distract him from the long darkness. A templar opened the peephole and Connor felt the eyes watch him, so he pretended to sleep. After what seemed like days and when the hallway was completely silent, he decided it was time. He crept to the corner, as sly as a fox, and crouched, allowing a long pause before he pushed the stone, praying that he was not imagining things the first time. It slid ever so smoothly and he was able to turn it to its side and pull it out. Upon first inspection, it was unremarkable. Solid, heavy, and using his hands he determined that there were no false sides or compartments. He set it down, and took another long look behind his back to ensure the templars were not watching, before reaching his hand into hole. For a moment he was afraid of what might be inside the wall, and hoped it was not crawling with insects.

The space inside was small, enough to fit the brick with little else to spare. At the back of the hole, his finger caught the edge of something. A parchment. He pulled it out. His hands trembled. It was folded in a square. Setting it in his lap, he replaced the brick and returned to his bunk. Although it was too dark to read, he opened it up and held it close to his face but only saw blurred writing and a drawing. Desperate to read the message, he thought of lighting a small fire on his finger, but decided against it. The templar on the other side of the door would surely burst into the cell if he cast a spell. Quickly, he folded up the parchment and stuck it into the inside pocket of his robe. As soon as he did this, he worried that he might be searched. Although this had never happened to him before, he didn't want to take the chance. He lifted the bottom of his robe and tore a small opening in the hem and slipped the message deep inside the lining, then stretched out and waited until morning.

**~0oOo0~**

The cell door opened, ushering in a burst of morning light. He must have fallen asleep after hours of tossing and turning and wondering about the contents of the note he had found in the wall.

First Enchanter Irving stepped inside. "Good morning. I trust you slept well? Let's speak further in my office."

Connor rubbed his eyes and glared at the templars standing on either side of the door. He followed Irving down the hall and up the winding flight of stairs to his office, keeping his gaze fixed in front of him. From his periphery he could feel the other mages in the hallway stare at him as they went about their morning routine. He wanted to turn around and curse them all. He hated being the bad mage and their moral compass. Irving dismissed his apprentice, Gallagher, who was busy sorting through old manuscripts. Without a word, he nodded, took his leave and quietly shut the door behind him. With a snap of his neck, Connor flicked his hair out his eyes and prepared himself for the tongue lashing and the lecture.

"Sit." Irving's tone was pointed, but not angry. 

He pointed to a stool as he settled into his well-worn leather wing-back chair. Connor plopped down, hunched his back and leaned on his knees. He stared at Irving, knitting his brows together.

Irving began. "We both know that this behaviour cannot continue, Connor. I want to help, but it will be out of my hands if you continue down this path. Do you know of what I speak?"

Connor pursed his lips. "They will make me Tranquil, sir." His voice cracked in a half-whisper and he tried not to reveal his temper.

"In this Circle, both the Knight-Commander and I must come to agreement on these matters. I never underestimate the trauma you suffered as a child. However, now that you are older, you need to demonstrate to others that you can use your magic responsibly. You have great potential to become a healer."

"And what good is being a healer in the Circle? And when have I ever used my magic irresponsibly? Never!" He raised his voice and glared, his clenched fists pained the palms of his hands. He wasn't just going to sit and be accused of something he didn't do. Did Minna or Fat Markus make up stories and tell Adler?

Irving tried to placate Connor's rising temper with his hands. "I know Connor. Others suspect otherwise, but I know better. Your recent behaviour forces me to withdraw all your library privileges. Unless you are chaperoned, you are not allowed to step foot inside, until you have proven yourself trustworthy."

Anger boiled just below the surface. "And what good will that do anyone! If I can't protect myself from demons, who will?"

Connor bolted out of the chair, ready to storm back to his room. The templar guard stood at the door, eyes fixed and prepared. Connor wheeled around to face Irving again. Bookcases, stuffed with Irving's personal research lined the walls behind him. For a second he strained to read the titles, but his eyesight was not so keen. Irving probably possessed the manuals he needed. How hard would it be to break into this office? Connor took a step back and felt the paper in the lining of his robe brush against his calf. He needed to get out of this office and somewhere private to read its contents.

"Your fear and anger will attract a demon. They feed on this energy. You need to control yourself. This will offer you more protection than any book."

Connor crossed his arms. defiantly. "The Circle needs more mages who can fight…not more healers!"

Irving's eyes shifted to the templar and back to Connor. With great effort he stood and put his hands behind his back.

"Take him to his quarters Ser Guthrie. He is to stay there for the rest of the day. Escort him for the rest of the week. Come find me if he finds himself in more trouble."

Connor turned and stormed out of the door, not bothering to wait for the templar. Armoured footsteps clanked close behind as he dashed down the stairs and ignored to the empty threats Ser Guthrie shouted in the stairwell. Now in a full out run, he raced to his bunk and jumped in bed. Within minutes, he heard the templar take his post inside his door. A smug satisfaction came over him as he heard his guard try and catch his breath. Pulling the sheets over his head, he reached into the hole in the lining of his robe. His hands started to shake as he pulled the paper out and flattened it out on his mattress.

The note was handwritten.

_If you are reading this, you have probably spent as much time as I have in this rotting hole. The good news is, I have something for you mage. You want to get out of here just as much as I. I've escaped before, and this will be my last. Before I got caught, I met a witch who taught me this spell. Use it wisely. Once you escape, come find me and we shall change the world. ~ Anders._

Beneath the note was a strange diagram with a set of directions. What was this spell for? The note mentioned it would help him escape. Perhaps it would make him invisible or counteract a templar's ability to mute his magic. Whatever it conjured, he needed to commit it to memory and then practice it somewhere quiet and private. He read it over and over again. Anders name was familiar, often associated with Nuraya's, except he didn't save Ferelden. His many escapes had become legend amongst the apprentices. Was he ever caught? He guessed not, supposing that Anders would have become a cautionary tale for naughty mages if the templars had ever caught up with him. Connor became very excited about this prospect of escape. It wasn't just a thought now, it was real. Since he had spent all of his time plotting an escape, after he had learned how to protect himself from demons, he had not given much consideration to the all-important second part of the plan. Once he was out of the tower, where would he go? What would he do? With the whole world open in front of him, he had to come up with a plan.

For the rest of the morning he studied the spell and committed it to memory. He sensed it was old, and guessed it must have come from the elves. He found the arcane geometry for healing complicated and hard to commit to memory. This spell, whatever it was and whatever it did, seemed to imprint in his mind like it belonged there. As the lunch bells rang, he had a terrifying thought. What if this magic conjured a demon? He did not know this Anders character. Of course all escaped mages are branded malificars to Circle mages. But what if this really was the case?

"Whatcha doin' Conna?" With lightning speed he folded the letter and shoved it under his pillow and pulled the sheet from his head.

A little elven girl, Chanya, stood at the head of his bed. Her robe was ragged and stained, her hair was uncombed. She followed Connor around like a puppy, but he didn't mind. He remembered the elven servants that his mother kept at Castle Redcliffe and the cruel names the others used. It was the same at Kinloch Hold. Everyone else either ignored Chanya or called her knife-ears. She didn't care that Connor was the shameful mage-cousin of the King and she was the only one who didn't care that he had once been possessed.

"I'm grounded." He sat up in bed and pulled his fingers through his shaggy, shoulder-length hair.

"Were you bad again, Conna? Was it…demons?" She whispered the last word emphatically, her big blue eyes widened.

"No silly. I was caught reading a book in the restricted section again. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in class?"

"Senior Enchanter Adler says you have to come for lunch."

Connor rolled his eyes and let Chanya follow him to the dining hall. As he picked at his plate, she talked excitedly over the din of the crowd about some lesson they were learning in botany. Connor pretended he was paying attention, but was trying to work out how he was going to test out this new spell. There were few places to practice magic in secret in the tower.

As he wondered this, something hit the back of his head. Reaching behind, he pulled out a glob of mashed potatoes and then heard fat Markus snigger and Pig-nose Minna chime in with a new assortment of insults. Before he had a chance to react, Chanya stood in her chair and threw a handful of her uneaten lunch at Minna, splattering her face with meat pie. Everyone in the dining room chattered in surprise.

Senior Enchanter Adler stormed over and pulled her up by the ear. "That's quite enough young one. To the Quiet Room for an hour."

Chanya was on the verge of tears.

"Punish me Senior Enchanter. I dared her to do it!" Connor pushed his sleeves up his arms and stood up from the table. Chanya looked at Connor incredulously. He winked back, hoping she would play along with him.

The Senior Enchanter pursed his lips and crossed his arms impatiently. "I'm impressed, Guerrin. Shows me you are starting to learn responsibility. But because you are still under the First Enchanter's watch, you'll have to stay overnight again. Maybe this time you'll learn your lesson before starting trouble."

Connor knew it was coming, but realized that needed to get the letter out from under his pillow.

"Might I apologize to Chanya before I go?" He tried to look contrite and hide his excitement.

"Very well."

Senior Enchanter marched toward the door and waited with the templar. "Turn around and quit gawking!" he shouted to the rest of the room.

Connor ran over to Chanya and whispered in her ear. He told her to fetch the letter and to throw it in the kitchen fire, making sure that no one ever saw her. As she listened, she bit her bottom lip and nodded, with big tears running down her dirty cheeks.

"I'm so sorry Conna!" Connor mussed the top of her head, told her not to worry and stood before Senior Enchanter Adler.

"Irving will be disappointed in you, Guerrin. He will wish to have words with you again."

Connor shrugged and strode willingly down the hall, back to the Quiet Room. Once the door was locked, he started to pace. Surprisingly, the templar did not drain his magic. Maybe this whole act of being sorry worked in his favour. He walked the perimeter of the cell fifty times to bore the templar in the hall, desperate to act quickly, but wanting to catch the templars off guard. Once the templar sensed the spell, he would have little time to break it and brace for a _Holy Smite_.

When he could no longer bear the wait, he concentrated, pictured the diagram and spoke each of the strange, arcane words under his breath. As soon as he finished, he felt himself contract and shrink, while the room became very large. Reaching out to grab hold of his head to ensure he was still there, he realized that instead of hands he now had wings. Wings! He could fly. He fluttered over the floor, quickly trying to master his feathers. A thunderous sound echoed from the hall—the sound of templars and Irving. With more effort, he fluttered up to the ceiling and perched in the window slit. It was the perfect size for a small brown bird such as himself. He looked down to the floor as the door burst open. Irving stepped in and Connor could see the panic on his face.

"Sound the alarm! Connor has escaped!" Connor hopped on his spindly legs to the edge of the window sill and took flight.

* * *

 

_Many thanks to my ever devoted Betas Kira Tamarion and DoorbellSpider for their edits, insight and encouragement!_


	2. Saunière

The knock on the door was most annoying. Glancing up from the ancient parchment, he squinted through a candelabra laced with spider webs, then rubbed his tired eyes. The flame flickered as he exhaled in resignation, also launching a whirlwind of dust that had settled on his books. 

“Come in!” said the old man in a gruff, irritable tone. Everyone knew he was not to be disturbed at this hour. His colleagues at the Université d’Orlais were well acquainted with the clearly posted hours that he spent in his office between lectures. From behind the solid oak door, peered a set of wide, nervous eyes. His grunted and stuck the quill back into the inkwell. 

“Excuse…professeur.” His wiry assistant cleared his throat and then tentatively entered. His ornate robes, emblazoned with the distinctions of a junior professor, swished through the narrow space he allowed for himself. Quietly, he shut the door with a delicate hand and stood before the large wooden desk with perfect posture.

“Professeur Saunière, I have received urgent news.” Tassilo always spoke with precision and perfect diction, and worked to maintain his comportment, despite being out of breath.

Saunière thought it odd that his assistant had ran all the way up to his office, so he took it as a sign that this message was not an inconsequential piece of faculty gossip; Tassilo knew better.  

Rolling up the document he had been working on, he popped it into its tube and then leaned back into his creaky chair. 

He folded his arms and scowled. “All of Val Royeaux had better be in flame, Tassilo. You know better than most complacent nitwits at this fine institution not to disturb me during research hours…” He rubbed his chin with one hand and tried to remember the last time he had shaved. Two, maybe three days at the most?

It was unclear whether his assistant caught his intended sarcasm. “My apologies, Professeur.” Tassilo approached Saunière’s desk, piled haphazardly with books, dried ink pots, loose parchment and uneaten food. He tried to hide his disgust, but it was painted all over his face. He held a letter in his hand.

“This arrived moments ago.”

Saunière leaned forward and grabbed the letter from his assistant’s hand. He inserted a monocle into his good eye and carefully inspected every contour of the letter.   The scrawling penmanship, suggested that the author was in a hurry, or distressed. The ink was cheap, the type procured from any peddler between here and Rivain. The paper, however, that was curious indeed. It was a parchment reserved for only the most senior scholars, known for its ability to keep its ink and withstand the ages. Saunière noticed the edges were worn and stained with mud. This could be the fault of a careless messenger. But the colour of the soil was of interest, and suggested the canyon lands in Nevarra, or perhaps an area closer to the Anderfels. 

As the professor studied the envelope, Tassilo quietly paced behind Saunière’s chair and hovered. Saunière paid no heed; he was used to his assistant’s interest in his work. As he continued to study the penmanship, following every contour of the cursive writing, he took careful note of every misplaced drip and blotch. Tassilo quietly opened the thick curtains. The professor grumbled.

“By the Divine Tassilo! Must you disturb my study? Can’t you see that I am reading? Is it some arcane Dalish tradition that sunlight must impose upon an old man deep in study?”

Tassilo turned, the contours of his head and elven ears, were now clearly outlined by the floor to ceiling window. He crossed his arms and looked Saunière directly in the eyes.

“Mon Professeur, we cannot have one of the most respected scholars at the university blind from eye strain. The Faculty of Medicine has well established that reading in proper light, will in fact maintain what vision you still possess. This has nothing to do with my mother.”

Bérenger Saunière’s family, known for their wealth and prestige, owned many elven slaves and had for generations. Saunière had known Tassilo as an elfling still clinging to his mother’s dirty apron and living in squalor in the scullery of their Ghislain estate. Before Tassilo could walk, Saunière had heard him speak fluent Orlesian and Antivan. He was sure that, given the chance, he would quickly pick up Nevarran and Qunari. When the elvling was old enough, Saunière took him into his care and educated him, and after tough negotiations with University administration, Tassilo would be given a post to teach languages when he reached adulthood. It had also cost him most of his inheritance in bribes; this was an act of revenge as well as charity. His father would roll in the family crypt, had he learned that part of his family fortune had paid to employ an elf. Although Tassilo would never rise to a post beyond the humbled lecturer, it was better than living in his family’s service.

Saunière stood, his back and knees stiff from long hours of reading and then plucked out the glass lens, returning it to its velvet-lined box. With a groan, he shuffled to the window. Now in the twilight of his life, he still stood tall and lean, although he was loathe to admit that he was developing a hunch that characterized most older professors. His hair had thinned and he had developed a severe widow’s peak by the time he turned fifty. He refused to cut the back, deciding to keep what he had left and kept it tied in a ponytail. Watching the lawn of the quad, he thought for a moment on the recent news of the Kirkwall Chantry. Groups of students headed to class with haste or sat reading in the early spring sunshine. At the far end of the quad stood the Cathaire Library. The façade was festooned with marble statuary and depicted the symbolic victory of the Chantry, its ornamental domed roof, clad in copper and silverite, rose above every other building in the area. He tried to imagine the ruin and rubble that now scarred Kirkwall. Far in the distance, the spire of the Grand Cathedral pointed skyward, and Saunière half-wondered how it would respond to the destruction of its sister in the Free Marches.  As he stared out the window, he turned the message in his hands.

He side-stepped behind the heavy velvet curtain to shield himself from the cloying light and inspected the back of the letter. “Now this is interesting. Duchamp’s seal.” The red sealing wax was stamped with the Faculty of Ancient Theology’s crest and Duchamp’s initials: BD. _Balthazar Duchamp_.

“Now do you understand why I ran up twelve flights of stairs to bring you this message with utmost haste, Professeur? Are you going to open it?”

“Much can be said about the outside of a letter as the contents. What can you tell me about the messenger?”

Tassilo sighed with impatience, but knew how thorough the professor was. “A plain man. Spoke fluent Orlesian.”

“Do you think it was the tongue of his parents?”

“No, the accent was either Nevarran or Anderfeldan”

“Divine mercies Tassilo! You are a linguist! Can’t you tell the difference?”

“Mon Professeur, he spoke four words to me. ‘Take this to Dr. Saunière.’ I dare you to come to conclusions with so little evidence.”

“Point taken. And what of his dress?”

“Orlesian without a doubt, suggesting someone of fortune, but without title. Is Duchamp still conducting his research in Nevarra? The extreme urgency of the letter makes it sound ominous. I fear Dr. Duchamp is in trouble.” With a finger, he tried to subtly direct Saunière to explore the contents of this letter but Saunière saw straight through his tactic.

“Trouble? What sort of trouble can an old retired scholar get into researching in old Chantries across Thedas? He’s likely forgotten the name of a book or is going to question the date of a particular event. Last year, he left to travel through Montfort and hoped his research would eventually lead him to Nessum. The last letter I received, he wrote from Caimen Brea, tracing Andraste’s last journey to Minrathous. I know the library there— very small. The Chantry vaults have always yielded some delicious bits of information though.” He continued to study the envelope, scratching his chin in thought.

Saunière reached to his desk, grabbed a letter opener, and sliced open the blood-red wax seal. The letter unfolded, bearing only a single sheet of parchment with a few hasty lines scribed in the centre. Quickly, he read the contents of the letter, his brow crumpling deeper and deeper with concern. Saunière blanched.

“Mon Professeur! The news from Duchamp! Please tell me nothing unfortunate has happened to such a great man, he has made such an important contribution to Andrastian history!”

Saunière read it again. “This is not a message from Duchamp. It’s his assistant, Felix…Dear Divine…they found a ruin that he insisted on exploring near the borders of Nessum.”

“A ruin?” Tassilo asked, pacing through Saunière’s office, straightening a pile of books on a side table as he passed.

“The letter does not specify. Duchamp went missing two moons past.”

**~0oOo0~**

The horse trod carefully upon the narrow path. To the right, a canyon wall rose above Saunière and to his left, the edge of the winding trail dropped perilously into a river basin. From time to time, Saunière would crane his neck to see the thin snaking river below, sometimes obscured by tangled trees that clung to the sloping cliffs. The sun was high and sweat beaded on his brow. From behind, he could hear the plodding hoof beats of Tassilo’s mount.

Within days of receiving the message from Duchamp’s assistant, Saunière sought permission from the rector to take extended leave and search for the missing scholar. Duchamp was an old man, nearing his seventieth summer and was greatly respected within Orlesian academic circles. Saunière had studied under him as a young man, once he was no longer of use to the templar order.

His father had sent him to the Chantry as a boy, fearing that his son’s love of books was turning him soft. For ten years Saunière served under the Ghislain Chantry until he was fatefully struck down by a malificars. He felt it was the best thing that had ever happened, even though his body would forever bear the scars and constant aches. At least the lyrium had not completely taken his mind. The Chantry sisters that cared for him after his injury told him he would never walk again, but Saunière, forever stubborn and never willing to take no for an answer, proved everyone wrong. In the darkest days of his convalescence, he sought refuge in the only remaining thing that he loved—books. Ser Joubert, Ghislain’s Knight-Commander, recognized Saunière’s scholarly inclinations, and used his connections to send him to Val Royeaux to study with Duchamp, once Saunière recovered from his injuries. Duchamp opened new doors for Saunière, and over the years they worked tirelessly on Andrastian history and early Chantry theology. Duchamp had a special love for investigating the first cults of the Maker and had a talent for sniffing out new areas of research.  

Saunière pulled a handkerchief from his riding coat and mopped his sweaty brow, and then turned to check on Tassilo. He sat high in his saddle on his Orlesian Bloodmare and looked every part a noble knight: impeccable and fearless. Even though Tassilo loved books and libraries as much as he, the blood from Arlathan still coursed in his veins, despite having adopted the superficial trappings of Orlesian culture. It seemed to endear him the rest of the University faculty. Despite this, he had strapped a Dalish longbow to his back; Tassilo’s aim was as precise as his tongue. Even in his Orlesian leathers, he seemed impervious to the heat, another subtle reminder of his assistant’s humble origins.  

Saunière groped for his wineskin slung over his shoulder and drank deeply. Maker knew he had seen far too many summers to be traipsing all over Thedas. His knees were on fire and a pain had settled between his shoulder blades and in the small of his back.

They had been travelling for a month. From Val Royeaux, they journeyed to Nevarra City, resupplied and then made their way north. They were now a day’s ride outside of Nessum, in the heart of Tylus Canyon, close to the borders of the Tevinter Imperium. Felix had provided a rough map and a general description of where Duchamp was last seen.

Despite the many years that separated him from his templar training, there was always a lingering unease when he journeyed close to Tevinter. This was a land that templars are taught to fear and loathe. Never one to accept anything at face value, the first thing Saunière did when he had arrived under Duchamp’s tutelage all those years ago was to become an expert in Tevinter history and culture. It was one of his first acts of rebellion. When his research raised the ire of the Blessed Rector, Saunière stood in front of the academic council to defend his work.

“Allowing Tevinter history to be cloaked in mystique will only give it more power. Let us shed the light of the Maker upon it.” He announced, full of arrogance.

He grew to love the academic dance. Really, he did not even think the Maker existed, but loved to use the Chantry’s rhetoric to get his own way. Duchamp taught him this game, and Saunière was determined to find him. His anxiety, he concluded had more to do with the fact that his was a known slaver route than with the pompous rhetoric of the magisters. 

The canyon path twisted around a rocky prominence. Saunière guided his horse and noticed that the road began to widen. The roots of the canyon above offered a shady shelter. Not quite a cave and more like a porch, the outcropping would offer the men a safe place to rest for the night. Saunière dismounted and tied the horse to a nearby pine.

“This looks as good as any place to camp for the night,” he called out to Tassilo.

“We’ve enough water for another days ride. If we don’t find another source, we’ll have to head down the canyon again.” Tassilo unpacked the leather water bags they had filled before their ascent and struggled to serve each horse. Meanwhile, Saunière stretched, pulled off the hat that prevented the top of his head from turning red as the dawn and sifted through his belongings to find his hand axe. There was enough scrub and deadwood for a fire. Nights were cold in the Disputed Lands, and the canyons were full of slavers, mercenaries and all other manner of brigand.

By sunset, he and Tassilo sat before a humble fire, with a peccary turning on a spit. The grease sizzled and spit as it dribbled into the flame and signaled Saunière’s stomach to beg for relief. Night creatures started to sing their evening songs. In the distance the cry of a wolf put the professor on edge. Tassilo sharpened a dagger in preparation for the feast. He looked up, his eyes reflecting the flickering flame and adjusted a log to better roast their dinner.

“It continues to beguile me why Duchamp ventured this far north.” Tassilo said, as if he was verbalizing a conversation already taking place inside his head. “Surely there is no evidence of an early Andrastian cult here. These lands are for travelling through…no scholar that I have read has ever hinted that a religious community had ever settled here.”

Saunière closed a small notebook he had been scribbling in. “Duchamp is rarely wrong. He was on to something, that much I am sure. You are aware that he was not always forthcoming about his research, Tassilo.”

Tassilo arched an eyebrow. “ _Mon professeur,_ the Chantry was pouring coin into his research into Andraste’s last journey to Minrathous. He was hoping to establish a pilgrimage route. Whatever are you talking about?”

The smell from the roasting meat was driving Saunière to distraction. With a small blade he kept strapped on his calf, he cut a strip for himself, to Tassilo’s disapproval. It was a little on the rare side, but it was enough to silence the grumbling.

“Duchamp was never one to allow the Chantry to direct his research. He’ll give them what they want; it’s his…extracurricular study…that I am most interested in. There are traces, mere hints that Andraste was more than an escaped slave.”

“Of course she is more than that, she is the holy prophetess.”

“By the Divine Tassilo, you sound so… _Orlesian_ …Duchamp was gathering evidence that she was escaping Tevinter with more than just the rags on her back. Think about it, my dear friend, Archon Thalsian either learned magic from Dumat or from the elves—depending on which side of the argument one wishes to align with. If magic is considered to be beneficial force, then of course it is the gift from the elves, or if it is a curse upon Thedas, then one will of course suggest that Thalsian had dark dealings with Dumat. Regardless, we are still missing one piece of the puzzle, Tassilo.”

Somewhere beyond the firelight, a twig snapped. Tassilo looked gravely at Saunière, quickly jumping to his feet and investigated. Bats darted over Saunière’s head and the wolf called again from the valley below. Tassilo returned and settled down again, assuaging Saunière’s concerns and suggested it was the horses.

“And what piece of the puzzle was Duchamp so interested in?” Tassilo asked, taking the meat off the spit and started to carve thick slices onto a flat stone.

“Learning magic is one thing, but how is the ability passed from one generation to the next?” Saunière held out his tin plate while Tassilo piled roughly cut chunks onto it. Saunière wasted no time appeasing his impatient hunger.

“And you think Andraste had something to do with that, _mon professeur_?”

Saunière placed a finger over his lips. A great Orlesian grey owl flew overhead, its haunting call echoed over their camp site. Tassilo seemed unfazed by the nocturnal visitors. The professor leaned toward the fire and spoke barely above a whisper.

“I think Duchamp found evidence to show that Andraste had everything to do with it, my dear Tassilo.” He held up a finger to stay his assistant’s response. Saunière turned around, hoping his eyes would quickly adjust to the dark. Brilliant stars hung overhead.

“Tassilo my friend, I think we are being followed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Bioware owns all, gads I am loathe to admit that. Thank’s for all your early interest in Andraste’s Key. My deepest gratitude and appreciation are sent to my betas Kira Tamarion and DoorbellSpider. This will be the last note I will leave in this story, but my gratitude for my betas still extends to each chapter I post.


	3. Nuraya

Nuraya Amell, the Champion of Redcliffe, Hero of Ferelden and former Commander of the Grey was weeding her garden on a warm spring afternoon. It had taken her years to establish it behind the Dungarven smithy, but this year she hoped for a bumper crop. A viney vetch weed tangled itself amongst the elfroot and Nuraya busied herself on removing it without inflicting too much damage of the young leaves. This was the best part of the year, standing in the cool earth, barefoot and pulling weeds from the garden.

Five years had passed since she resigned from the Grey Wardens and left Amaranthine. After sending Anders to Kirkwall, she dispatched a note to the First Warden in Weisshaupt and formally resigned her commission as Commander of the Grey. She sent two names as potential replacements, recommending both with equal regard: Oghren and Nathaniel Howe. Instead, the First Commander sent a senior Warden from Orlais, Sasan Rastignac and accepted her retirement. Perhaps the senior Grey Warden in Denerim, Anora Theirin, was vying for the position, and the First Warden decided a neutral party would avoid more in-fighting. At this point, Nuraya was wholeheartedly fed-up with politicking and did not bother to investigate. The Wardens could fight it out amongst themselves. She left Amaranthine and moved to her home village of Dungarven.

The only true reward she received from King Alistair was a written agreement between the Crown and the Chantry that permitted her to open a quiet healing clinic and allowed her to ostensibly, disappear from public life. Even though the country wanted a hero to be flaunted at every festival, no one really wanted to deal with the tension and the sense of anxiety she brought upon the clergy, and by extension, the nobility. A quiet life in the country was a win-win situation for all parties. Not surprisingly, the Chantry required only one condition of her resettlement--that she be appointed a templar steward to ensure she was not in fact, organizing an underground revolution with the intentions of turning every mage against the Chantry. Nuraya agreed, so long as the templar did not prevent her from attending to her patients. Nuraya was not sure how Alistair managed, but he sent an old acquaintance, whom he had known before the Blight and believed he had the right demeanour and temperament for Nuraya.

As soon as Nuraya’s father, Maldwyn, nailed the healing clinic sign over top the door, Ser Ruskin Kirch moved in to his post next door. Every month, he had to report her activities and any concerns to the local Chantry and from there, Nuraya was unsure where those reports went. Five years later, she was quite convinced that Ser Ruskin and Revered Mother Lindys met for tea and shared local gossip once a month.

With her hoe, she turned the soil in a patch of feverfew. A voice distracted her work. She snapped her head up and lost her straw hat in a patch of purple coneflower.

“Need a hand?”

Stepping out of the garden, she wiped her bare feet in the grass. “Unless you can prevent a late frost, I think everything is under control, Ser Ruskin.” She scooped a ladle full of water from her bucket, drank the fresh spring water and then sat in a bench near an elderberry bush. 

With a click, the pushed on the wrought-iron latch and opened the garden gate. Waving, he wandered in, slowing as if he were deep in concentration. Ruskin had stopped wearing his armor two years ago, on account of its utter impracticality. He wore a surcoat with the templar emblem embroidered on the front. It was considerably cooler and he seemed to feel a need to blend in to his current posting. Their relationship was strictly professional. He seemed friendly enough, but kept a cool distance. Once over a beer at the local Inn, he admitted that he liked this posting enough that he did not want to be accused of fraternization. She appreciated his position and took his lead. She often encouraged Geordie, a journeyman smith who worked with her father, to take him to the Winking Moon Inn for Wicked Grace night, in hopes that he would fit in with the locals and offer assurances that she was just a small town healer. What he did with his own time, she did not ask. 

“Impressive. This should give you plenty of stock for the next year.” With his hands behind his back, he walked the perimeter of the garden and studied the various species that she grew.

“Just pray it I don’t lose half of it to hail, like last year.”

He turned to her. He had hair as red as Oghren’s but as curly as a sheep’s. He kept it back in a long braid, almost as long as Nuraya’s. His freckled face was framed with long side burns and a goatee. She supposed he was handsome, although she had long given up on men. Ever since Alistair, she preferred to stay very far away from romance, especially when it involved templars.

“The clinic is quiet these days,” he commented. He spied a wayward dandelion and pulled it from the patch of pulmonaria.

“After this winter, I’m glad for the break. Five families had children with the croup and I’ve lost count how many suffered from fever. No worries Ser Ruskin, Mrs. Atwater is expecting her third child in the next passing of the moon and there are at least five others who will follow over the course of the summer. Between that and the common farming mishaps, I am afraid that I shall be run ragged until fall.”

“Revered Mother thinks that you should take on an assistant.” He turned and looked at her.

She returned a quizzical look. “An assistant? I was granted this practice mostly due what I was able to accomplish with the Wardens. And of course, I had the support of the Circle and the King. I’m not sure the Chantry would be open to accepting another Circle healer.”

“Not a mage. A newly ordained sister. Audrey is her name. She just arrived last week and the Revered mother wants to put her to good use. She’s a skilled healer, knows much of plants and such.”

Nuraya dug her toes into the grass. “I’d have to meet her. We’d have to be…compatible.”

“Of course. Can I send her over tomorrow for tea?” He took a deep breath and looked down. “I don’t want to say this, but if you dismiss her based on personality alone, I’m afraid it won’t be enough of a reason for the Chantry.”

Nuraya clearly understood him, but could not help but wonder why the Chantry was starting to exercise more control over her. “Very well, send her over for tea.” She got up and began to scoop the pile of pulled weeds into a wooden wheelbarrow. Ser Ruskin helped and pushed it to her compost. He even used the fork to give it a turn. Nuraya appreciated his need to be useful and often invited him to visit and help her garden. It kept the peace as well as a well-maintained garden.

“So, do you miss it?” he asked after they scooped heaping mounds of rich black compost into the wheelbarrow and started working it amongst the plants.

“Miss what?”

“All the excitement. The adventure. Fighting the Darkspawn, being a Grey Warden.”

Nuraya wiped her hands on her apron. “Not at all. That was enough excitement for one lifetime.”

The sound of the wind rustling the spring leaves and the chattering of sparrows was abruptly interrupted when Geordie burst through the garden gate. He was still in his leather smock, his hands blackened and his dark hair pulled back.

He clicked a pair of tongs excitedly in his hand. “Pardon me Miss Nuraya, the Kings’ messenger has arrived and is asking for you!”

After removing her apron and straw hat, she followed Geordie to the main road. The Royal Messenger, complete with feathered hat, sat high in a Fereldan palfrey draped in a black velvet trapper embroidered with golden rampart lions. He dismounted and approached Nuraya. Tulia was scurrying toward her as well, full of curiosity and delight. As the innkeeper’s wife, it was her job to be in the know. The village lived for new stories from Denerim, and a royal messenger meant that the story would be tantalizing. Ser Ruskin greeted the messenger and offered to stable his horse.

“Nuraya Amell of Dungarven, Chamption of Redcliffe, Hero of Ferelden, Amaranthine’s Last Hope and Former Commander of the Grey?” The messenger respectfully removed his hat and bowed. The feather fluttered in the wind. Nuraya rolled her eyes but saw Tulia clap excitedly, trying not to bounce too fast or too high. 

“I am she.”

Nuraya’s father and Dungarven’s smith, Maldwyn, now accustomed to the attention his daughter received, closed the door of his workshop and joined her. He was beaming with pride and wrapped and arm over her shoulder.

The messenger passed her a sealed letter. “A message from his Majesty King Alistair Theirin.” She took it and the messenger waited patiently as she read it. Village folk began to gather.

Once she had read the message, she turned to her father and Tulia. “The King requests my presence at the palace immediately.” She folded it up and tucked it into the pocket of her breeches.

“Immediately! Whatever for? It must be of great importance, Nuraya, if the King himself sends for you!’

“His Majesty does not say, Tulia.” Nuraya said, nonchalantly.

“I am to be your escort M’Lady. His Majesty requests that you leave Dungarven at this moment.” The gathering villagers started to chatter excitedly around her.

“Impossible. I cannot leave my clinic on such short notice. I’ll leave when I’m ready.”

The messenger was not sure how to respond and his expression reflected this confusion.

“Surely, you canna keep the King waiting, pup!” Her father said.

She turned to her him and smiled. “The King can’t just expect me to drop whatever I’m doing. I’ll tie up my loose ends and leave in the morning.”

Tulia spoke up, thankful for Nuraya’s stubbornness. “The King’s messenger will be more than welcome to take shelter at the Winking Moon until Miss Nuraya is prepared to leave.”

The messenger had no other choice but to agree and followed Tulia to the inn. Ruskin offered to bring his belongings, while Geordie and Maldwyn offered to prepare Nuraya for her long journey to Denerim. As the crowd parted, she chased after Ruskin who was heading toward the stables to fetch their guest’s saddlebags.

“Ser Ruskin, when you have a moment, can you send Sister Audrey over?”

Unbuckling the straps from the horse, he smiled. “Of course. I guess adventure likes you, whether you like it or not.”

Nuraya did not like the sound of that. Still barefoot, she dashed across the yard went inside her apartment at the back of her clinic. It was a comfortable sized room, with a massive fieldstone hearth and enough room for a small kitchen, her bed and a desk. Padding across the wooden floor, worn smooth as satin, she sat at her desk and conjured a small flame on the tip of her finger to light a beeswax candle. Hunching over, she pulled out the letter and read it again, more slowly this time. She did not have to worry about hiding her expression from a group of curious on-lookers. From the handwriting, she could tell the King had written it himself. With an extended sigh, she allowed all the memories of their time together rush to the front of her mind. No matter how hard she tried to pack it all neatly away, the memories were always there, always teasing her; her heart had never forgotten him. However, she had made her decision after the Blight to part ways with him. She had no desire to fight the Chantry to allow her a place in court. Becoming Queen was out of the question, and becoming his mistress, while plausible, was a loathesome prospect. She did not help kill a dragon to end up skulking in the King's shadow. Mages were still being dragged to the tower, after all. She still felt slightly guilty about the freedom she now enjoyed.

For five years, she patiently waited for Fiona’s return. Fiona, an elven mage and Alistair’s mother, found her during her quest and promised to help Nuraya free the Fereldan mages. She had not seen her since the last of the darkspawn had crawled back into their filthy holes. At times she wondered if the promise still held. As the years passed, Nuraya helped in very small and subtle ways: sending apostates to see Kalvindir at the Denerim’s Mages Collective or teaching them to heal so they could set up their own clinics outside of Ferelden. Her actions were always discreet as she was fearful of Ruskin discovering her activities and alerting the Chantry. Enough time had passed that she wondered if she should give up on Fiona and start making larger plans on her own.

Her hands were shaking as she held the letter near the wavering candle.

_Nuraya,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. There is a matter of utmost urgency that the Queen and I must discuss with you. Upon receipt of this letter, I ask that you make for Denerim immediately. Ser Palmyre shall be your escort. I dare not divulge the nature of my request in writing, but be assured the situation is indeed both serious and time-sensitive. I am seeking your trusted counsel and advice._

_Yours in friendship,_

_Alistair_

Nuraya wanted to crumple the letter. Had the nobility turned him completely stiff? Where was his humour? Perhaps the matter he alluded to really was as serious as he claimed. She heard very little from him since she had left the Wardens. The first was an invitation to witness the grand marriage between he and Telari Cousland. Once the dragon was dead she connived and made the match. During her stay in Denerim prior to the Blight, she had befriended Telari and they shared confidences. She told Telari that she was the daughter of Teryn Loghain and Telari admitted her relationship with Duncan. Nuraya did not expect to survive the Blight, however, in a final act of mercy and love, Alistair secretly completed Morrigan’s ritual and forced his way to the top of Fort Drakon to ensure that he inflicted the killing blow on the Archdemon, in the event that Morrigan’s ritual was nothing more than a ruse for something more sinister. While Denerim burned in the aftermath of the Darkspawn assault, Nuraya decided that she did not belong at the palace. She was a free mage and determined to ensure that every Fereldan mage would be as well. Sadness still lingered in her heart, but there was no regret. A year after her campaign in Amaranthine, just after she established her clinic, a royal messenger arrived to invite her to the wedding. She sent a long and heartfelt message, sending her regrets. She figured that the ghost of their love did not need to haunt the chantry during their ceremony. Three years ago, another message arrived, this time to the whole of Dungarven, which announced the birth of the heir, His Royal Highness Prince Brandel II.

She folded the letter and set it inside a wooden box on the top of her desk, wondering what Alistair needed her for. Perhaps the product of his union with Morrigan, an old god incarnate, was the subject of his concern. Nuraya glanced out the window and noticed that the fair sunny day had begun to cloud over.

There was so much that she had to do to prepare for Sister Audrey. After organizing her apartment, she headed into the clinic. The thought of leaving bothered her considerably. What if one of her patients required her magic? She made her way over to her bookcase and pulled out her ledger to double check that all her healing formulas and patient records were in order. After that, she busied herself with organizing and labelling all her herbs and tonics.

Geordie and her father built her an entire wall of small drawers and shelves that she used to store the many plants she grew and purchased. She never accepted any coin from her patients. Any donations she received went directly to the Chantry to care for the orphans who lived there.

A few hours later as she finished sweeping the wooden floor with a corn broom, the clinic bell chimed and the front door opened. Nuraya straightened her apron and pulled her braid in front of her. Ser Ruskin stepped in with a young woman. She was fair and pale. Her cheeks were kissed with rosebuds and her blonde hair was pulled back into a bun. She wore Chantry robes that seemed a size too large for her small frame. Nuraya took one look at her and hoped that Farmer Hatcher would not knock her over with the booming complaints of his aching joints. While a tender touch was always necessary when tending to patients, some needed a firm hand and voice. She doubted Sister Audrey had the sturdiness that came from two years of hunting Darkspawn.

“Lady Nuraya, this is Sister Audrey.” Ruskin said.

Nuraya took her hand and shook firmly, welcoming her and tried to chase away her own anxieties. She allowed no time for pleasantries and immediately set out to explain every inch of the clinic. Sister Audrey was sharp and keen to learn, if not a tad cold on the personality side. Nuraya and the rest of her patients would have to adjust. She would rather this combination than a social butterfly without a thought between her ears. While the women discussed matters concerning the clinic, Ser Ruskin busied himself by restocking the wood pile in both the clinic and her private residence.

“Rest assured Miss Amell, I will serve your patients as I serve Andraste.” Sister Audrey stood by the front door at the end of her orientation with her hands joined in front of her.

“Ser Ruskin has gotten to know Dungarven folk rather well. He should be of great help to you. Also, my father, Maldwyn and the journeyman Geordie are here if you need them. If you require a horse in the event of an emergency, Geordie will see to that need.”

“I have to say I am very impressed with your clinic. I did not expect your attention to detail and professionalism. I shall mention this to the Revered Mother.”

Nuraya thanked her, even though she wanted to roll her eyes. Ruskin knew Nuraya well enough to catch the unintended insult. So fresh from her cloistered Chantry upbringing, Nuraya was able to forgive her ignorance.

“Sister Audrey, let us head back to the Chantry. It looks like it might rain. Hurry before we both get drenched.”

She stood in the door and waved as they departed. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon. Nuraya could not help but wonder if they hinted of trouble brewing in Denerim.


	4. Kessler

The neck of the bottle struck the edge of the tumbler with a sharp _clink_ , splashing amber liquid onto the table. He tipped the bottle straight up and shook the remaining drops of the Rivaini rum into his drink and slammed it down emphatically. Not wanting to waste an ounce, he wiped up the puddles with his thumb and licked them clean. Kessler Hawke, fully intending on drowning his troubles, leaned his chair against the mud brick wall, crossed his feet beside the empty bottle, and drank deeply.

He had taken a room at the only brothel in the northern reaches of Nessum, hoping to stop running, at least for the night. Before the rum, every noise in the Wounded Axe’s hallway had his heart pounding. Logic told him that only traders finding their way into Tevinter and their companions-on-loan passed outside his door. However, his paranoid irrationality feared that a templar—or worse a Seeker—would eventually come bursting into his room. A bottle later, he trusted that Shasta’s growls would alert him to anyone that came near. Tonight he was going to get pissed and maybe even purchase the services of one of Hagen’s lovelies, if the rum wasn’t as potent as was claimed.  Regretfully, he thought of Isabela and wished he could conjure her into his room. She always had a way of taking his mind off his troubles. _And that perfect ass, I should have taken her offer up and got on that bloody ship._ He took another drink and held up his tumbler, studying the candlelight through his glass. There was little chance Isabela wanted to live a low-key existence and stay out of trouble, and Kessler knew that their competing interests would eventually put them at odds with one another. _It would have made for some great hate fucking though._

“To Isabela’s fine ass!” He raised his glass and toasted to Shasta. The mabari’s ears twitched in his sleep in response.

The fires of what remained of the Kirkwall Chantry were still burning when he had left, or rather, had fled. He had intended on leaving everything behind: his brother and friends, his fortune and his name. As he had snuck out of his estate with nothing but a backpack and a sword he had picked from a Coterie thug he had slain in a Low Town alley, he fully intended on leaving Shasta in Bodahn and Sandal’s care. Travelling alone seemed simpler at the time. Shasta had other plans however, and Kessler could not refuse those sad brown eyes and wiggling stump of a tail.

He had forgotten for how long they had been on the run. Weeks? Months? Three days ago, travelling the lesser known foot trails from Hunter Fell, he paid Hagen for a room for the week and poked about to find work. It reminded him of the early years he had spent in Kirkwall, trying to eke out a living and raise money for that ill-fated Deep Roads expedition.  Sure, the proceeds of that adventure ensured that he lived in relative luxury for a number of years, but at what cost, he started to wonder. After Bethany’s death, for which he felt directly responsible, his mother’s pleas and his better sense refused to let his brother follow him into the Darkspawn infested caverns. Carver could wield a sword well enough, but Kessler had magic just like his sister, a power that should have been able to save her; it should have been able to save his mother as well. Despite the fortune he made, he wondered if the idol he and Varric had found had somehow cursed him. Did Carver turn to the templars as an act of rebellion or revenge? And was it Kessler the older brother or Kessler the apostate mage that Carver felt the need to renounce? They spoke little once he started his training, save the passing cutting remark. Even as he stood before Orsino and Meredith at the Gallows, Carver’s newfound duty with the templars took precedence over any sense of family. Anger caused his fingers to curl in and clench. Clearly, the rum was not acting quickly enough. He emptied his tumbler and staggered about the room to fetch another bottle that he stashed nearest his night stand.

Pulling the cork out with his teeth and spitting it out on the floor, he decided that drinking from the bottle was far more effective. Varric, no doubt, was at the Hanged Man, stewing in that filthy shite-hole he called a room, nursing his ale and attempting to sort out the mess Kessler had left behind. Then he’d create some outrageous tale for anyone who bothered to listen. The effects of the rum didn’t make him miss the Dwarf any less and hoped his sudden disappearance would be forgiven. There was nothing left for him in Kirkwall, nothing of consequence, with the exception of Varric. The bloody aftermath at the Gallows was his last straw. As Kirkwall descended into madness, he removed himself from the equation, deciding quit wasting his time on matters beyond his control. At times he regretted not leaving a note for Varric that explained his sudden departure and decision to go on alone. Every time he tried, he crumpled the parchment, frustrated that he sounded like a whinging failure, but more importantly, unwilling to provide any evidence for the Chantry to drag from Varric. Once the situation cooled, he thought of reconnecting with him, and then laughed out loud. _Little fucking chance of that._

He toasted Varric and tipped the bottle.

“To your stories, tall and true. Fuck, I miss you friend.”

Shasta exhaled deeply, resting his chin on the floor between his paws. The cork had rolled toward him and his nose flared as he smelled it. Drawing no curiosity or interest, Shasta fell back to sleep. Kessler could tell that he was homesick, if it were possible for a mabari to develop roots and a sense of home. He was just a puppy when he came to Kirkwall, barely surviving the long escape from Lothering. Was he missing outings with Aveline or Sandal’s affections? Loyalty came with a price, Kessler had learned.

_Fucking Anders._ It was his loyalty to Anders that forced him to run. Scowling, he took a longer drink and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He could feel his stubble chafe the back of his hand and reminded himself to shave in the morning, almost hoping for a pounding hangover. That would mean he was able to get sufficiently pissed to pass out and interrupt these vexing memories for a few hours. Even with a headache and a pasty mouth, his past would continue to haunt him, just as it was now. The templars were looking for a six foot, dark-haired mage with a beard. On the morning he took the straight-razor to his face, he said good-bye to his former self—the man who tried to help the Kirkwall mages under the Chantry’s ever-tightening grip and failed. He even toyed with the idea of cutting his hair right to the scalp, but settled for just removing the pony-tail. Gone was the Hawke name as well. He was Arlen Greer now, a sellsword from Tantervale, a man with an uninteresting past. It was best that he kept his magic to himself for the time being, at least until the Kirkwall situation cooled, if that were even possible.  

_Fucking Anders ruined everything._ It was pure chance that he was able to befriend another apostate. In his experience, free mages were best not seen in public together. In Kirkwall it was hard enough to keep his own true nature secret. Once he had killed the Arishok, he supposed that the Chantry merely tolerated him. He kept his nose out of Anders’ underground movement for the most part, fearing that his reputation would only set the templars upon them faster. He also grew frustrated at how many resorted to blood-magic and ended up dying anyway. _Such a fucking waste_ , Kessler thought. If they stopped cutting deals with demons they could have organized a viable rebellion, which Kessler would have considered supporting. He never trusted that spirit that Anders carried around inside of him either. What sort of justice would the Kirkwall mages experience now that they would be held culpable for Anders’ lone act of desperation? It was his mere association with Anders that had him on the run. 

Despite Sebastian’s demands, he didn’t have to heart to kill him at the Gallows. He and Anders had been through too much together—they fought through the Deep Roads, put an end to the Qunari uprising, not to mention the countless slavers and Coterie that troubled Kirkwall’s most vulnerable. Anders even brought Kessler back from the edge of death while battling a demon, after his unsuccessful attempt to convince Merrill that fixing the eluvian with fucking blood-magic was a terrible plan. _Fuck her too._ _Fucking demons and spirits of justice best stay out of the realm of the living, period._

The bottle was now half empty. His life was always that way, half empty, never full, and never easy. A couple thumps on the door almost sent him tumbling to the floor. Shasta knew better than to bark. He jumped on the bed settled in, grumbling in objection. Kessler guessed from his demeanour that it was no one that he should worry about, and was grateful that his only companion had an uncanny knack for sniffing out templars. Kessler guessed he sensed all that lyrium they consumed, or those maker-forsaken phylacteries they carried. Grateful he was not traceable; it was only thing making his life on the run easier. It didn’t totally quell his paranoia, however.

“Go the fuck away,” he said. Of course, it could be Hagen coming to tell him that Magalie was between the better paying customers.

“Open up, it's Derko.”

Before he got up, he drank deeply, set the bottle down and fumbled with the lock. Unimpressed, the paunchy mercenary stood with arms crossed and a scowl denting his bloated face. Kessler swung open the door and bowed sarcastically, bidding him entrance with an outstretched arm. Derko’s boots thumped loudly on the wooden floor, and his ring-mail that stretched over his capacious girth clinked as he took Kessler’s chair and stretched out. He poured himself a tall helping of rum in Kessler’s tumbler, swirled it and nodded approvingly after sticking his nose in close and taking a whiff.

“Help yourself there, Derko. Can I bring you some Orlesian petit fours as well?”

“Gots a job. Thought you might be interested in making a bit of coin.” In general, Derko's voice was more akin to a growl. 

Kessler had played a few hands of Wicked Grace with him the first night he arrived. Derko was a terrible player, but Kessler had let him win a few rounds before his opponent was sufficiently drunk enough to be tricked into losing all his money. By that time, Kessler had expressed interest in taking on some work once he was certain that this self-proclaimed Viper was dimwitted enough to work with. Derko’s tongue was also quite loose and reported when templars were in the area. Kessler didn’t even have to ask. He had to be careful though, because Derko could also unwittingly blow his cover. It seemed that the Vipers stuck their noses into everyone’s business in Nessum, which made them better gossips than mercenaries.

Kessler sat down with him at the table and continued to nurse his rum. Bored with lying low, he said, “I’m listening.”

“One of my contacts from up north is bringing a shipment down to Nevarra City. Says he needs some security. Ten gold coin in it for you. They needs us tomorrow night.”

“That’s a fair bit of coin for security detail. I’ve already made it clear, Derko—I don’t help slavers. You can just go fuck yourself and your ten gold.”

Derko played with his beard, showing no reaction to Kessler’s rebuff. “Just a cartload of elves from Tevinter. They’ll fetch a decent price in Nevarra and won’t get smacked around as much. I figure the situation is win-win here. So, if you’re going to get your frilly smalls in a knot over a couple of knife-ears, then I’ll give you fifteen. That should quiet your conscience eh?”

“Haven’t you heard a word I said?” Kessler then emphasized each word firmly. “I don’t help slavers. The end.  Good-night, and shall we meet for Wicked Grace before you leave?”

“Fuck Greer, don’t play hard to get with me. Name your price then.”

Kessler decided to pry him for more information, curious how the Vipers got mixed up with the likes of a Tevinter slaver. The Vipers were a local band of trouble-makers, who fancied themselves as Crows, but possessed neither the cunning nor the muscle to even dream of competing. There were three members in total, not enough to deserve a name, but Kessler went along with Derko’s fantasy anyway. From what he was able to observe during countless hands of Wicked Grace, slavers were way out of the Viper’s league. It occurred to him that it might be entertaining to start some trouble, might help keep his mind off things, so long as he managed to maintain his cover.

“Who hired you?”

“Old contact of mine, a Tevinter trader, goes by Munatius. Actually the Vipers calls him Mooney, but that drives him right ‘round the bend. Anyways he comes through about three times a year and every time he hires us Vipers to get him safely to Nevarra City. Always insists on hiring four of us. Rights now, Guza and Turovich are in. Course we lost Tosi last month to the Crows…Maker rest his soul…so you’d make a fine fourth Viper…whaddya say?”

The money wasn’t important. Part of him was drawn to the risk, reminding him of life in Kirkwall, sorting out riff-raff in Dark Town or confronting a band of mercenaries on the Wounded Coast. Back then, he had a sense of purpose, a will to enable change, a hope that things could get better. He had Aveline, all righteous and steely and Varric’s pragmatism. At one point he’d leave for weeks with Carver and actually have fun with their petty bickering and what he thought was brotherly rivalry. Of course, Anders always tagged along, all broody and dark with fury percolating just below the surface. There was a part of Anders that slipped away over the years, completely swallowed by the spirit that occupied him. The old Anders was damn funny and had a mischievous sense of rebellion. That was gone too. He was broken and probably the most wanted apostate in all of Thedas. Kessler wondered if any of the old Anders has survived, if there was anything worth saving.

He wasn’t the least bit interested in helping the Vipers, but had this insatiable desire to stir the pot. _The rum must be working if I am seriously thinking about this_ , he thought wistfully. Although forever at odds with Fenris, he appreciated his abhorrence towards slavers. Of course, he did not agree with Fenris’ proposed solution to the _mage problem_ , which either involved death or captivity, but that was always a matter for debate during Wicked Grace night at the Hanged Man. And of course, Merrill, wide-eyed, idealistic and so fundamentally misguided, was an elf as well. They were no different than anyone else in Thedas, save their stature and distinct facial features. Kessler had a special hatred for slavers; they were the lowest of the low, and in some respects more reviled than templars. Having seen enough of the perils of magic, part of him understood the misguided need to control that power. _Take Anders and the Kirkwall Chantry for example, or look at what happened to Keeper Marethari._ Slavers just wanted to dominate and exploit. Kessler chugged more rum, hoping this idealism would pass.

Derko was growing impatient with Kessler’s silence. “I needs an answer tonight. You in?”

“Fuck off Derko. I don’t help fucking slavers.” Kessler said, enunciating each word with frustrated emphasis.  

“Suit yourself, Greer. Your loss, my gain. If you change your mind, meet us at the Fork at dusk.”

After Derko let himself out, Kessler collapsed into the bed, not bothering to move Shasta.

~0oOo0~

His head was pounding, just as he hoped, even though he had spent a majority of his day in bed, sleeping off the rum and bad dreams. Standing just outside the city walls, he unbuttoned his breeches and relieved himself against a pine, wishing that he had filled his wineskin with more water. The midday heat had not yet wore off and the air was still thick and stifling. For about an hour, he kept to the shoulder of the dusty road and wandered in the brush, mindful for poisonous snakes that liked to hide underfoot. Following at a comfortable distance was Shasta, busy sniffing the ground and perfectly content to be out exploring and marking his territory.  Kessler made it to The Fork, grateful to find the area deserted. Here, the road split, winding south to Perendale and north, towards the Imperial Highway. He had yet to travel to Tevinter, unsure if he wanted to be in close proximity to Slaver Magisters. For the time being, the Northern Nessum road would be as far north as he dared to venture.

The land was dusty and mostly barren, with the exception of thorny bushes and patches of wild grass with razor-sharp blades. The road gradually dipped toward the canyon, a massive landmark that jutted out of the valley like a colossal sedimentary city, obscuring the horizon with its limestone pinnacles. Where the flat lands met the towering stone walls, the road diverged again. Travelers rarely ventured into the heart of Tylus Canyon and tended to keep to the Nessum road that led northeast to the Imperial highway.   

As the sun started to dip behind the western expanse of the canyon, it painted the stone in fiery orange and magenta, spilling its shadow onto the trail. Kessler took advantage of the waning light to scan the valley below, not lost on the striking landscape before him. He noticed a cloud of dust being kicked up, and hoped it was Munatius’s approaching caravan. Hiking deeper into the brush, he jogged toward a hedge of cypress and crouched, continuing to watch the empty road. He whistled for Shasta, whose head promptly perked up from the brush at the sound of his master’s voice. Sniffing his way over at a leisurely pace, he sat beside Kessler and started to pant.

Patiently he waited, growing bolder as the sun slowly disappeared, and continued to survey the road and Shasta’s reaction. Eventually, the dog’s ears twitched and grew more attentive, pointing his nose toward the road.  He let out a breathy woof.

“Shhhh…keep it down boy, we don’t want to give ourselves away do we?” Kessler whispered.  Shasta’s tail started to wag vigorously and stood, obeying his command but fighting the urge to run.

Eventually, he heard the creak of wooden wheels and the hoof-falls of heavy oxen. As the slaver’s wagon lumbered into view, he focused his mind on the road, directly below the rumbling cart. Clenching both fists, he pulled sideways, feeling the energy transfer from his mind to the dusty road. Shasta whined and cowered as the ground rumbled violently. Screams from the back of the wagon filled the evening air, followed by the braying of injured oxen. He could have inflicted more damage, but that wasn’t the point, and ducked into the brush again to observe his spell’s effects. Lying on its side, the wagon’s back wheel spun while the front had cracked completely in half. The oxen were trapped under their wooden bow and harnesses, kicking wildly to get back on their feet again.

Spell casting seemed to have released a pressure that had built up inside of him, which lightened his mood for the first time in months. Still hidden in the brush, he watched closely, waiting for the driver. Eventually, an obese man in robes and a hood limped to the wheel to inspect the damage, cracking a bullwhip at his elven cargo. Disappointed that he did not eliminate him the first time, Hawke clenched his fist and pitched overhand, releasing his hand and power when it aligned with the target. These spells always left a dusty taste in his mouth, signalling the intensity of the spell's power. A massive stone hurled through the air and knocked the driver completely to the ground.

Kessler ran from the hedge and toward the screaming prisoners. The wagon’s cage was bent and inside the elven cargo lie in a tangled heap of blood and limbs. Kessler had little time to spare, aware that Derko and his Vipers would soon be waiting at the Fork. Blood pooled around the driver’s head and one side was more misshapen than the other. The conjured stone had long evaporated, thus eliminating any evidence. Flies started to buzz about the gore and Kessler wrinkled his nose when he discovered the driver had messed his pants in the process of dying. _Let’s hope he does not keep his keys in his smalls_. With his foot, he performed an initial search and when he heard the chink of metal, he honed in to a key ring fastened to his belt loop. Quickly, Kessler pulled it free and dashed to the rear of the wagon. Shasta was running and jumping about excitedly, barking playfully at the elves still trying to recover their wits.

“I was in the area and felt the earth tremor. A shame about your driver.” he said, as he turned random keys into the padlock. Finally, the shackle released and he pulled the door open. A set of raised hands passed Kessler an elfling, no older than four, who screeched and kicked when his father released his grip.

‘Go with the man, he’s come to save us, _emma lath_.”  The father’s terrified eyes shone out from his cage. He strained to reach higher, pulling on the chains that bound him to the floor of the wagon.

Kessler set the crying elfling down, while Shasta approached in his happy way, licking the back of the child’s legs. At first, he screamed in terror, however, Kessler put a hand on his shoulder, offering him a kind look.

“Easy now. He’s here to help. We don’t want to draw attention to more slavers in the area do we?” The elfling sniffled and nodded repentantly, still harbouring the lifetime of mistrust for _shemlens_.

He passed the keys inside. “Take these and unlock your chains first.” A determined muttering and the sharp sound of falling iron came from the back of the wagon. Meanwhile, Kessler checked the oxen, noting that both had broken limbs. He drew his sword and slit their throats, offering them a quick death. As the first elf climbed through the door and jumped to the ground, Kessler stood on the axel and offered his hand to those requiring assistance. He counted thirteen slaves in total, not counting the boy and an infant.  These weren’t the prized specimen’s the Magister’s coveted, but merely the rejects, being sold for a song to whoever would pay the highest. Some were quite old, while others carried the scars from long years of abuse. 

He rummaged through the front of the wagon and found the slaver’s satchel, and was pleased to find injury kits and medicine, even a few vials of lyrium. He handed the pack to the oldest man.

“Take this, heal yourselves and get out of here as fast as you are able.”

Hope dawned on their faces, now that the shock of the accident was starting to wear off. Ragged and filthy, they quickly started tending to their wounds. Not one had perished, and Kessler guessed that the injuries of their past would have been more severe.

“Head south, but avoid Nessum. I suggest you make for Sundermount. I heard rumours of Dalish in the area.” He wished he could send his own personal recommendation, but of course, avoided using his name.

“You are too kind, _Ma serannas falon_. Your name, so we can speak highly of your bravery?”

Kessler whistled to Shasta and head back into the brush. “Best scatter before someone starts to miss this shipment.”

~0oOo0~

“So, what did I miss?” Kessler asked, sauntering toward the Vipers, with his sword strapped at his back.

“Greer, my man! You’ve sobered up and got your sense back.” Derko said. Behind him were two short-statured men, wearing mismatched armour, which Kessler assumed had been pilfered from their victims. Derko pointed his thumb to the shorter of the two, reminding Kessler of a weasel. His face was thin and drawn and a scar pulled his thin lips into a scowl.

“This be Guza.” Guza grunted in response.

The third man, stocky, bald and wearing breeches with a studded leather chest harness, laden with daggers and knives, also said nothing. He pulled out two serpentine daggers and twirled them in his hands.

“And ‘dis here be Turovich. Brothers in blood and in arms as they say. Boys, this is Greer. Tolds you that I’d convince him to take the job.”

“A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, gentlemen,” Kessler answered, drawing his sword as a show of solidarity, and then stuck the tip into the ground and leaned on the pommel. He hoped that he was not just meeting the brains of the Vipers. He didn’t like the look of the shirtless fellow, Turovich. He had a look that made Kessler think that he had a special fondness for cruelty.

“Just tell me how I can serve, and I shall just shut-up and do my job.”

“Mooney’s late.” Guza growled.

“Let’s start walking. We’re bound to meet up with him soon,” said Derko, turning toward the northern road.

Kessler had run a wide arc in the brush from the scene of the accident. Once he spied the waiting Vipers, he backtracked and hopped back onto the road when he could no longer hear their loud voices. He had just enough time to catch his breath when he met up with them. Shasta was still sneaking in the brush, and Kessler hoped he would remain hidden.

It was already after dark and the stars were beginning to twinkle above him. Kessler listened for any sign of the elves, hoping they would not run directly in their path. The only sound he heard were their boots scuffing the gravel and the chirping of crickets in the wild grass.

“You boys from Nessum?” Kessler asked the Viper brothers, deciding to size them up.

“We’s from Wildervale. Got chased out by the Crows about a year past.” Guza responded.

“Crows.” Turovich said in a rumbling growl. He punched his fist into the palm of his hand and gripped, ready to strike.

“Came up here about six months ago, that’s when we ran across Derko. He hates Crows too.”

Again, Turovich mumbled his viscious mantra under his breath. “Crows…”

“And what do you gentlemen have against a measly group of Antivan assassins?” Kessler watched Turovich turn bright red. He pulled a dagger and pointed it at Kessler’s neck.

“I hates Crows!”

Kessler pushed the blade down with a finger. “I see that. Usually there is an interesting story behind such animosity.”

“Turovich tried to join the Crows when he was a lad. They laughed in his face.” Derko said, in the same tone as one might admit that the Crows came in and raped his mother and sisters and murdered the rest of his family.

“Indeed.” Kessler managed, trying not to laugh. “And this job we are on now, does it have any connection to the Crows?”

“Naw, this is just a job. If the Vipers are going to become the greatest Crow hunters in Thedas, we needs more coin.” Derko replied. _And more members_ , Kessler thought to himself. _Perhaps more brains as well_.

As they strolled to the top of a hill, the scene of the caravan accident came clear into view.

“What the fuck!” Derko yelled and ran down the hill. Kessler jogged behind, scanning the horizon, thankful to see nothing but brush and scrub, sky and stars.

“Maker’s balls Derko! Look, its Mooney. Shit…” Guza said, inspecting his corpse alongside of the wagon.

“And where the fuck are all the slaves?” Derko said desperately. Kessler realized that the oxen’s slit throats seemed a little odd and hoped it would not raise any questions.

Kessler strolled to the back of the wagon and picked up the key ring that lay in the dirt.

“Looks as if something happened to the wagon, got its wheel stuck in a rut, or broke over a sharp rock. The elves must have escaped and then killed their driver.”

“How we’s gonna get paid Derko? Fuck!” Guza said in exasperation.

Derko searched the drivers’ body and stood, tossing a coin purse in the air. “Lookie here boys. Looks like we don’t needs to get to Nevarra City.” He opened the purse and poured the coin into his hand. “Easiest job to date. And double the wage…”

Before the Vipers could examine the wreckage closer, Kessler started walking in the opposite direction. “Someone is going to come looking for this. I’m heading back to the Axe. Anyone interested in a drink?” 


	5. Nuraya

 

She lay in bed, watching the rain trickle down the window in steady rivulets. Lightning flashed and moments later, thunder rumbled in the distance. Her inability to drift off reminded her of nights during the Blight. For months, while shivering inside her thin tent, she often dreamed of the Archdemon. At first the nightmares filled her with such dread that they would keep her awake for days. At first, it was a distant, shadowy horror, but as the Archdemon’s voice became coherent, it begged her for release, worming its way in her mind, convincing her that she alone helding the key to its freedom. Instead of fear, she felt a pity so deep that it drove her to tears. Tonight there were no dreams or enigmatic voices calling to her. Her mind was spinning, mentally preparing her trip. She had stayed up far too late making lists for Sister Audrey and packing for her own journey north. After a few hours she convinced herself to rest, but continued planning as she tossed and turned in bed. Images of Alistair flicked through her thoughts. Why did he need her? Was it Fiona? Perhaps Alistair’s letter signaled the start of Fiona’s plan. Her belly churned at the thought. As much as she wanted to do something for the mages, the idea still scared her. If she faltered, even once, she knew thousands might suffer. When she tried to stop thinking about future, she would drift into concerns about her patients.

After a particularly loud rattle of thunder, she heard knocking. Startled, she sat up in bed and listened closely. Someone was pounding on her apartment door. After the first wave of fear passed, she jumped from her bed and wrapped herself in a woolen shawl. Lightening continued to flash and illuminate the room with blue-white light. It made finding her slippers all the easier. If the knocking had been on the clinic door she would not have felt so nervous, but rarely did anyone seeking medical assistance come to her apartment.

Standing outside the door, she hollered. “Who’s there?”

Through the pouring rain, she could hear a muffled, “It’s Ruskin! I’m sorry to disturb you at this late hour!”

As soon as she heard his voice, she opened the door wide to let the drenched templar in. His hair was dripping and stuck flat against his head and his surcoat dripped puddles on her floor. He pursed his lips, as if to wring out his moustache. She grabbed a woolen blanket from a chair and wrapped it around him, and could tell by the look on his face that there was something terribly wrong.

“What is it?” she asked, pulling him to the chair near the fire, throwing on a long. He refused and touched her arm.

“Get your bag. I need your help…she’s bleeding and I’m very afraid.”

Without bothering to ask for more information, she ran to the clinic, grabbed her emergency satchel and shouted back to Ser Ruskin. “Go saddle Tandie, I’ll meet you at the stables!”

Moments later, she heard her door slam shut. With haste, she dressed, pulled on her breeches and boots, threw on a wrinkled cotton tunic and grabbed a hooded robe, then slung the satchel over her shoulder. She strapped a dirk to her waist. Galdorbryne, her beloved spellweaver sword had been lost on the roof of Fort Drakon, and she didn’t have the heart to replace it. Her father crafted this dagger for her, as she frequently made trips outside the village. Like many fathers, he was concerned for his daughter’s safety. _Really, if I were to find myself in trouble, a couple fireballs would help out in a pinch._ The dirk usually came in handy when she needed to cut clothing off an injured man or strip cotton for bandages.

At the stable, Ser Ruskin handed over the reins of her beloved black horse, Tandyr. As soon as she was saddled, Ruskin galloped off in the pouring rain, splattering mud in his wake. The rain was unrelenting, soaking her almost immediately. As thunder rolled overhead, she dug her heels into the horse’s side to catch up with him. Rarely did Ruskin show such concern or haste. As helpful as he was, she was usually the one collecting him in the middle of the night to go and treat a patient. By the time she caught up with him, he was racing out of town and heading for the borders of the Brecilian forest, and wished she had asked who was in need of aid. Perhaps a hunting party had befallen trouble, as it was well known that bears were known to wander in too close to town. Wiping her face from the driving rain, she saw Ruskin approach the edge of the wood and slow his horse to wait and saw that he was following a rough trail through the forest.

It was much darker once they lead the horses under the thick canopy, but it offered some reprieve from the rain. Deeper into the wood they rode on the winding trail, over a stream and eventually into a clearing with a small framed house with a thatched roof. She had no idea that someone had been living in these woods. A small candle flickered in the window and smoke curled from the chimney. After she dismounted, Ruskin took the horses. Before she stepped inside the cottage, Nuraya could hear determined moans. Not bothering to knock, she slipped inside, knowing that she would find a woman in the throes of childbirth.

The woman was leaning on the bedpost, clenching her teeth and groaning as she endured a contraction. The crimson stain in the centre of her nightgown was worrisome. Nuraya set her satchel near the fire, happy to find a pot of boiling water. Rummaging in her bag, she threw some instruments into the pot and mixed a ladle of hot and cold water to wash her hands. She soaked a cloth in water mixed with lavender and chamomile and cooled the young woman’s forehead.

“I’m Nuraya, I’m a healer and here to help.”

The woman, as drenched as Nuraya, was in a brief reprieve from her labour. Wearily, she said “Ainsley.” She pursed her lips and looked down. "This only started. Help my baby."

Nuraya rattled many questions to gather what information she needed: How far apart are the pains? How long have you been labouring? Have you any children? Have your waters yet broken? Between her agonizing waves, she was able to determine that she was nearing the birth, her waters had not yet broken and she had been labouring her first child for a good part of the day. Nuraya helped her onto the bed and performed a cursory examination, not bothering to drape blankets for modesty. The woman complied, drawing in deep breaths to catch up with her pain. She was not quite ready to begin pushing.

Ruskin had let himself in and stayed in a dark corner. She called over to him and asked him to bring her a thin metal rod from the boiling pot. When Ainsley saw the instrument she started to panic and cry, when she was not heaving from a powerful contraction. Ruskin sat on the edge of the bed, mopped her brow and in a low voice tried to calm her down.

“I’m just going to break your waters. This won’t hurt at all, I promise. We’re going to speed things up a little bit. Are you ready?” Nuraya assured her in a calm voice, rubbing the woman’s bare leg reassuringly. Ainsley bit her bottom lip and cautiously nodded.

The bleeding, although not serious, was still of great concern. With a great whoosh, her waters flowed. The woman’s cries became sharper and louder, as her labour entered its final stages. The next time Nuraya checked, she could start to feel the baby’s head.  She instructed Ruskin how to position her into a squatting position and had her use the bedpost for support. Outside, the wind started to pick up and the storm outside intensified.    

The woman roared again. Ruskin leaned over and tried to shush her.

“Let her go Ruskin, the shouting will help.” Nuraya instructed her when and how to push.

For the good part of an hour they encouraged Ainsley, but when she paled and weakened, Nuraya reassessed the situation.

“Is this normal, Nuraya?” Ruskin asked, mopping the sweat from the woman’s brow, as he watched her lethargically sink into the bed. Nuraya dared not answer, not wanting either to know her distress.

She was hesitant in using magic during childbirth, figuring that nature had already figured out the process without its help. This time, her concern chased away this feeling. She placed her hands on top of the woman’s swollen belly and inhaled deeply. She could tell that the placenta had torn and she could feel the baby’s heart rate drop deathly low. Ruskin murmured to Ainsley.

“Don’t worry, she’s a skilled mage. I’ve seen her do this before, it’s going to be alright.”

Nuraya inhaled sharply and drew in the injury, feeling the tearing and bleeding inside her mind. She released the hemorrhagic image back to the Maker. When she was done, her hands were incredibly warm and could taste blood in the back of her throat. The more she healed, the more acutely she experienced her patients’ injuries. Ainsley’s energy returned when Nuraya had finished. Seizing the moment, Nuraya allowed her a sip of water and prepared some swaddling for the baby.

“Okay Ainsley, when you feel the pain again, I need you to bear down and push out your baby.” Nuraya instructed.

Ainsley now lay prone, propped up on her pillow, drenched in sweat. Ruskin continued to tend to her, wiping her brow and calming her with a low voice. It was curious that he was involved at all, and usually waited in another room or outside. The woman dropped her head in despair. After a long and arduous push, she slumped back into the bed.

“I can’t. I can’t do this anymore,” she whimpered.

“You’re almost done, I promise. Don’t give up yet! You want to finally meet your baby don’t you?” Nuraya felt the woman tense with the contraction and she commanded her to bear down again, counting down the contraction. After three more pushes, the baby’s head finally emerged. Ainsley yowled and moaned and with the last of her effort, worked the small wet baby from her womb.

Nuraya quickly cleared out the baby’s air passage and cut her cord. The baby let out a lusty cry and her mother wept with relief.

Nuraya quickly wrapped the child and then placed her on her mother’s chest.

“Here you go, mum, meet your daughter.” Ainsley nuzzled her tiny head in relief. Over her shoulder, Ruskin regarded the baby with awe. Nuraya tended to the final stages of birth, and then busied herself with the cleaning up. After both mother and healer were washed, Nuraya took the baby for her first bath to grant the mother have a bit of rest. She cradled the baby, whose precious little face was still swollen and puffy from her journey. In a basin, she gently sponged her off. Nuraya cooed and soothed the crying baby as she wiped her face and tied off her cord. The tiny girl, with clenched fists, vibrated as she expressed her complete displeasure of the bath. As she cleaned her tiny head, she noticed a fine down of bright auburn hair. Nuraya called Ruskin over.

He came to watch Nuraya as she swaddled the baby and rocked away her cries. She leaned toward him and whispered. “This is your daughter, isn’t it?” She passed him the baby, and he accepted her tentatively. Fathers tended to receive their children eagerly but always appear awkward the first time. The question stunned the templar but his face clearly revealed the answer. His expression softened as he watched his daughter.

“Have a moment, and then come and find me outside.” Nuraya said.

Nuraya paced in front of the cottage, stretching, then spent some time stroking Tandie's silky neck. The rain had stopped and the world smelled sweet. Early song birds had started to rise and dawn would soon break across the clear horizon. She was not looking forward to the journey to Denerim, even though she was accustomed to working long and erratic hours. Tending patients was one thing, sitting on a horse all day long was quite another. Ruskin quietly joined her.

“I am sorry I put you in the middle of this situation, Nuraya.”

Nuraya looked at him. “I’m glad you came for me. Things might not have turned out so well if you didn’t”

Ruskin looked her in the eyes evenly. “I am afraid I am in an extremely compromising situation right now. It makes it hard to celebrate.”

She rarely expressed her ire for the Chantry in front of Ruskin. He had to know, on some level, how difficult it was to be a mage in Ferelden. Nuraya reached out and reassuringly rubbed the side of his arm. “The Chantry has made exceptions for templars. You have an excellent relationship with Mother Lindys. I’m sure she will be fair.”

“You don’t understand. Ainsley…is a mage.”

~0oOo0~

At dawn, Nuraya stabled Tandie but did not bother to unsaddle him. Geordie would soon arrive to pack him for her. Back inside her apartment, she collapsed on her bed, now wishing she could curl up and take a nap. She had told Ser Ruskin to meet her before her departure. Upon hearing her father unexpectedly call her name from her clinic, she dragged herself out of bed to meet him.

“I heard you out last night pup. Are you sure you want to leave this morning?”

“I don’t wish to anger the King, papa,” she said with a grin. “Besides, the sooner that I leave, the sooner I shall come home. I know that folk won’t much like Sister Audrey, she’s not exactly people person. But assure everyone that she is a capable healer, and that I’ll be back.”

Her father chuckled. “Now don’t you worry about a thing. Everything is in good hands. Go sort yourself out with the King. I never thought the Hero of Ferelden was destined for a quiet country life.”

“Oh papa…”

Maldwyn winked and then offered to bring her some breakfast. As he was leaving, she heard him greet Ruskin.

She started fixing a strong tea and invited the templar to sit with her at the table. He looked as tired as she.

“We named her after my mother, Josslin. We were wondering if she could take your name as her second.” Ruskin said with a grin.

“I’m flattered, Ser Ruskin. What are you going to do now?”

Ruskin stroked his goatee with his long fingers and then coursed them through his hair.

Nuraya leaned forward, sensing his uncertainty. “I suggest that when Ainsley is on her feet, hire a caravan and take her and the baby to Denerim. Find me and I will find safe shelter for her.”

He sat back and considered her offer. “There is no safe shelter for mages in Denerim.” 

Nuraya smiled wryly. “I have much to tell you about the Mages Collective. Utter one word to the Chantry and Ainsley and the baby will be dragged to the tower. Both you and I know this is not an empty threat. After I leave, go the Revered Mother and tell her that you are leaving to Denerim as my escort.”

Ruskin sipped his tea and stroked his goatee again. “Why would you need an escort in Denerim?”

“I don’t know! Make something up. Be creative! Tell her that I wanted you near for my own protection…tell her I fear that maleficars wish to see me harmed…or tell her I wish to appease Grand Cleric Endelyon. I don’t care really.” Nuraya tapped her fingers on top of the table and swirled her tea as she thought. “Here is a plan, once I arrive in Denerim, I will send word to Revered Mother Lindys requesting your presence. By the time my note arrives, Ainsley should be well enough for travel. Get her settled—avoid the Pearl and the Gnawed Noble—they are not exactly the sort of establishment for a new mother. The Silver Knight is near the palace grounds…go there. And for Makers sake, tell her to avoid using magic if at all possible. Denerim is crawling with templars, and not all are as nice as you.”

Ruskin crossed his leg and covered his face with his hands. “What a mess! And to think I brought a child into this situation…”

“It’s a bit too late for regrets. How did you meet Ainsley? Where is she from?”

He leaned an elbow on the table. “We grew up together in Dragon’s Peak. Our parents always assumed we’d marry. She did not show the ability until her sixteenth year. That was the same year my little sister showed hers as well.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister, Ruskin. Was she taken to the tower?”

He nodded glumly. “When she was ten. You might have known her—Senara Kirch? Ring a bell to you?” They had never spoken about her years in the tower before.

The name sounded vaguely familiar to Nuraya. She tended to ignore the younglings when they arrived. Their pain brought up too many horrible memories of her own. “Yes, I do recall her—a little red-haired girl, full of personality. Is she still at the Tower? I can't believe you've kept this from me all this time. I can't believe I never made the connection before.”

Ruskin’s face fell. “I saw no point. She was killed during Uldred’s siege.”

“Oh." And then guilt settled in as she recalled how she arrived too late to do anything to stop Uldred. "I am so sorry.” Nuraya furrowed her brow and placed a hand empathetically on Ruskin’s. He pulled away and wove his fingers together, continuing with his story.

“After my sister was taken, my parents sent me to the Chantry. They hoped that I would be stationed at the tower, so I could watch over her, protect her. Before I left, Ainsley came to me and told me that her own abilities were beginning to manifest. Knowing what templars did to mages, I helped her run away, and promised that I would find her. The Chantry never sent me to the tower. I was stuck in South Reach for years. That’s where I met Alistair…I mean his Majesty. Ainsley travelled from town to town, stayed out of trouble and sent me letters when she could. When I was sent to Dungarven, I helped her settle in the wood. Always kept watch over her. No matter what the Chantry said about the danger of mages, I never saw it in her. I can’t lose her now…we have Josslin…”

“I will send for you as soon as I reach Denerim.” Nuraya went to her desk and took out a piece of parchment and dipped a quill in her ink pot. “I’ll prepare you some herbs that Ainsley might need. I’m not sure I’d trust Sister Audrey quite yet.”

She sat at the desk and wrote out a list of remedies that new mother’s might require: Salves for rashes, tonics for colic, guidance on overcoming feeding problems and a list of advice she often gave to new mothers. She gathered the medicines into a leather pouch and handed it over to Ruskin.

“Take care of Ainsley. All she needs for the time being is rest and good meals.” Nuraya would have liked to check up on her once more before leaving but was too afraid of raising too many questions with Sister Audrey or Ser Palmyre.

At the door, Ruskin took the pouch. “I will repay your kindness, someday.”

“I’ll see you in Denerim.” As she stood at her apartment door, she heard Tulia around the corner calling for her, waddling at full speed, her bonnet flapping in the early morning sunshine.

“Are you ready my dear! The King’s messenger wastes no time!”

Nuraya returned to her apartment and prepared to leave. 


	6. Connor

Without looking back, Connor launched himself off the ledge of the tower window, and soared. His feet tucked neatly into his under-feathers and his wings spread taught with the wind. Anders’ spell was better than an escape; it was freedom. His heart raced in delight as he watched Lake Calenhad disappear into the distance, climbing higher, up, up into the vast blueness above him. Far below, a thin layer of clouds obscured the rolling countryside, like a fine mist or fog. Just as he focused on the ground below, he faltered awkwardly but was able to right himself immediately. Luckily, the wind was at his back and propelled him forward and faster at speeds he had never experienced before. Extending both feathered wings out straight, spreading out what used to be his fingers, he caught a column of air and glided, dipping and diving, allowing the wind to carry him wherever it pleased. For hours he climbed and soared, setting as much distance from Kinloch Hold as he could. Wheeling toward the tree tops, he circled lower and lower. There was too much to drink in, too much to experience. He felt himself beginning to tire and had an overwhelming desire to perch on a branch in the forest below.

Fluttering lower, he spread his toes and grasped a branch high in an oak beneath the safe shelter of its leaves. Connor thought he might want to stay in this form forever. Why bother to return to the world of humans? No one in Thedas had anything to offer to him now. He was an escaped mage, an apostate, an assumed maleficar. He hopped on the branch and peered down to the forest floor. As he perched, he felt hungry and wondered what he’d be able to eat. He didn’t even know what type of bird he was, other than being small, brown and capable of flight. As he pondered this, he craved grubs and insects. His human mind wretched at the thought and he resigned to returning to his human form, if only to eat.

Listening to the chirruping of others around him, his lack of a destination troubled him. Now that he was away from the tower, where would he go? It was unclear where he could easily hide from the Chantry and, ultimately, his parents. Denerim, he decided quickly. He would go to Denerim and try and find Nuraya Amell. She might know how to help him out, how to keep him from the tower, how to protect him from demons. Word of his disappearance would quickly reach the palace, where his father now served as Lord Chamberlain, the second-highest rank in the palace, next to that of the royal family. They would not think to search for him in the city, and he hoped they would focus their search in Redcliffe first.

Once he made up his mind, his exhaustion gave way to a sensation of heaviness. Slowly, his human form unfolded, his wings grew longer and lost their feathers, feeling them retract inside of himself. His legs grew thicker, his entire body became substantial. Before he could react, the branch he so pleasantly perched upon began to crack and eventually broke under his weight. Connor reached for the nearest limb and hung on for dear life while realizing he was wearing nothing at all. Stretching his leg, he groped for something solid with his foot. His toe eventually came to rest on another rough branch and he slowly inched his way down the tree. The branches and bark scratched his naked skin and blackflies began to bite behind his ears. He rested on a thicker limb and used a free hand to clear away the pests. Stepping down, almost close enough to jump to the ground, he slipped, lost his footing and tumbled out of the tree, landing with a thump into a pile of brittle leaves.

As he came to his senses, he groaned, surprised that he had not broken his neck. About to sit up, two faces appeared above him.

“Well, well, well. Lookie here Yaleen! It’s raining little naked boys!” A man with greasy hair the colour of old leather and a patchy unkempt beard stood over him. Connor could tell by his stench that he had not seen a wash basin in months. His clothes were caked in mud, grease and blood. 

“Suppose he is a gift from the Maker, Revik?” His female partner had kinky grey-streaked hair, with two thin braids decorated with beads, stones and shells. A dark tattoo stretched over her angular features, decorating her high cheek bones with barbs and thorns. Her thin mouth was drawn into a sceptical scowl.

Revik held out a tattered glove that looked as if had recently gutted a pig. Connor sat, trying to hide his exposed areas, wondering what had happened to his robes. Maybe they still lie on the floor in the Quiet Room, he thought. Bending his knees in an act of modesty, he grew terrified about the situation he had just fallen into.

Yaleen crouched in front of him, leaning on her staff. She used it to poke his chest as she spoke. “Your name and business in this wood, lad.” She furrowed her thick eyebrows as she assessed him suspiciously.

“I am Connor…Connor…Amell,” he said. Despite his bewilderment, he did not want to be linked to his parents. Information about the Lord Eamon’s son could be bought and sold for quite a hefty price among the wrong sort of people. Judging by the staff Yaleen was jabbing him with, he had landed amongst a couple of wayward apostates—just the wrong sort of people he feared. “I escaped from the Circle. I’m hiding in the woods. Surely you would want to help a fellow mage?”

Yaleen arched and eyebrow and then looked over to her partner. “The Circle you say…” she prodded him again. “Templars after you eh?”  

“No…well, not yet. I’m way ahead of them. I am making my way to Denerim. I’m going to find…my sister.”

He could tell by her stony glares that she was not satisfied with his answers. “Give him some clothes Rev, before he shrivels any more.” Her partner disappeared into the bush. “So how do you know that the templars ain’t hot after your little naked ass, eh? They has your phylactery no doubt and will bring them here right quick. What happened, you run away from the bath?”

“Didn’t want to be wearing Circle robes. I…burned them.” Even he realized his explanation was weak, but it was the first one that popped into his head.

Revik returned and threw a ratty set of robes over Connor’s head. He quickly pulled them over his head and twisted them around so he could slip his arms through. It was about three sizes too big and they smelled of sweat, mould and he did not dare to guess what else. Revik tossed a pair of boots, one by one, at his feet. His feet swam in them as well, but it was better than being naked and barefoot.

Yaleen looked at Revik.  “This one is shady. Ain’t telling us the whole story. Not sure if I trust him. Maybe we should just tie him up and leave ‘em here for the templars. We don’t needs no templars in our business.”

Connor stood up and adjusted the robe that kept falling off of his shoulder. “I can be on my way then. I’ll go this way,” he pointed, “and you won’t have to worry about anyone following you. I’d pay you for the robes, but as you can see I wasn’t carrying coin…” He started to walk away.

Revik pointed a rusty staff at him. “Not so fast there, laddie. You ain’t going nowhere.”  Connor considered casting the spell again to escape this situation, but the thought of roaming naked across the Fereldan countryside made him think twice.

Revik looked in the direction opposite to where Connor had pointed.  “Denerim is that way, boy. You’re going to meet your sister you say?” Connor could see a wide smirk extend from under his beard. Connor pursed his lips and nodded.

“Who is this sister of yours? She got coin?”

“Yes!” Connor burst out, glad that he had something agreeable to say. Travelling to Denerim in the company of more experienced apostates seemed a much better idea than trying to find his way on his own. “You may have heard of her. Nuraya Amell? The Hero of Ferelden?”

Yaleen and Revik looked at each other knowingly. “Folk says that she was Loghain’s bastard. You Loghain’s bastard too, lad?”

“No, same mother, different fathers.” As he said this, he hoped that Nuraya’s mother’s name was not a topic of Fereldan gossip. He had no idea who she was. “I’m going to Denerim to find her and she is going to get me out of Ferelden. I am sure there would be a generous reward for two kind travellers who decided to help the Hero’s little brother arrive safely.”

“Oh, we’ll get you to Denerim alright.” Revik said. “We had better get moving then before your templars close in around us.”

Together they turned and walked through the wood, to a small clearing where they had camped. Revik stuffed his pack with the items they carried, which included a strange assortment of vials and potions. He loaded Connor with the heavy sack and tapped his behind with the bottom of his staff.

“We travel by night. Templars need their beauty sleep we hear.”

~0oOo0~

Throughout the night they walked in the forest. Connor’s feet were covered in painful blisters and his shoulders ached from the straps of the heavy backpack. Ducking under low hanging branches and negotiating the uneven ground, he followed the two mages closely, trying to catch snippets of their whispered conversation. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to learn anything more about the pair, other than the gold they would get as a reward for delivering him safely. They spoke little to him, only to tell him to hurry up or to offer a drink from their wine skin. It tasted like mouldy grapes that a vintner had scraped from the bottom of a cask. He only accepted the foul drink when his parched mouth could bear it no longer.

At dawn, Revik tossed his staff in a meadow bordering a stream and told Connor to get some rest. Connor buried his face in the rushing cold water and drank as much as he could swig from the palms of his hands. While splashing the cold, crisp water on his face, he felt something burn his bare shoulder, where his robe has slipped off again. He turned to Revik and saw the staff pointed at him. He must have cast a minor spell on him. Connor felt completely betrayed that another mage used magic on him and could not believe that freedom from the Circle was this complicated.

“I says you sleep.” Revik said in a serious tone. With his chin, he beckoned Connor closer. Nervously, he approached, allowing his arms to swing to his side and disappear into the cuffs of the dirty robe. Revik pointed beneath a pine tree. “Sleep in there. Keep yourself hidden. You’ll have more than a flick of my staff to deal with if you decide to run away.”

Connor obediently crawled under the tree and tried to make himself comfortable between the pine needles and gnarled roots. He kicked off the boots, blew on the weeping blisters and lay down, so utterly disappointed that people outside the Circle treated him in the same manner as inside. If he learned anything at Kinloch Hold, it was how to behave in these types of situations. A cooperative prisoner was more likely to discover the best means of escape.

“Why would I run away when you’re going to help me get to Denerim?” Connor rested his hand on the side of his head and watched Yaleen and Revik prepare their nests.

“I says shut up and sleep, boy!” He yelled back. Sighing exasperatingly, he sat and rummaged through his pack and then tossed Connor a vial. It rolled in the grass just out of arms reach. “Drinks this. Takes time to get used to being nocturnal.”

Connor crawled out from his shelter and opened the vial. It smelled strong, causing his nostrils to flare and burn. “What is it?”

“Helps you sleep—all you need is a sip. You’ll need this for your feet.”

An injury kit skidded beside him and Connor eagerly unwrapped the contents and smeared the salve all over his wounds. The relief was instantaneous and brought him to a more easy state of mind. He was tired, but with the sun now shining gloriously through the trees, he feared he would not be able to rest enough to keep up with another demanding night of travel. He opened the vial and let the liquid burn down his throat. Within minutes, his eyes grew heavy and he was swallowed in darkness. 

~0oOo0~

For three nights they travelled north, following a river. They stopped long enough to fish, and on some occasions Revik disappeared for a few hours and would return with rabbits or pheasant. He warmed a little his to guides, only enough to gain their trust and convince them that he was not about to bolt from their company. In turn, Revik did not attack him with magic. Yaleen was distant and cold and only spoke with Connor to tell him to collect firewood or to carry water from the stream in a large water bladder he could barely lift when full. Her knowledge of herb-crafting and potion-making was impressive, even Senior Enchanter Leora would have appreciated her skill. As they hiked, she would pick a plate-sized fungus growing on the side of an oak, or wade in the water and pull up reeds, discarding the stems and keeping the roots. Her preparations tended to be simple, a couple of ingredients, a dash of lyrium, but their effects were potent. The sleeping potion for instance, was a combination of ground skullcap and valerian root, mixed with the sour wine. He recognized the plants from botany class but never knew they could be combined to create such a powerful tonic. The sleeping tea the mages mixed at the Circle always ended up giving him terrible heartburn. Whenever Connor asked her questions about her craft, she would stare down her hooked nose and tell him to get lost and leave her in peace.  

Their truce was fragile at best, and Connor hoped that it would survive long enough to get to Denerim. He didn’t even want to think about that yet. He had no idea where Nuraya was, or how he would manage through the story he had concocted. The sleeping draught helped him from dwelling on that problem when they stopped for rest.

A few hours before dawn, they sat before a small fire. Yaleen was cooking Revik’s catch of the day and had made a soup from wild mushrooms and herbs. Connor sat quietly, as he had been accustomed since they had met, and watched the flame flutter and twist between the glowing logs. He was exhausted, his feet still hurt and his was lonely.

Mustering some courage, he pulled some cooked trout from the bone with his lips and asked, “Where are you from anyway?”

They turned to stare at him incredulously and he nearly ducked, expecting to receive a shock from Revik’s staff as retribution for his impertinence. Connor shrugged when he believed it was safe to continue. “You know these woods well. I figured you must be from around here. I grew up near Gwaren before the templars came.” Really, he had no idea where Nuraya was from. Loghain Mac Tir used to be Gwaren’s Teryn. He figured it was as good a place as any.

“We ain’t got no home boy. The woods is our home. We ain’t stayed long enough anywhere to grow roots. Roots is bad for mages.” Revik said, licking his fingers.

“All of Ferelden is bad for mages if you ask me.” Connor replied, drinking the hearty soup.

Yaleen smiled. “You got that right laddie. Ain’t no good place for us mages at all. Us mages, we gotta stick together. No one else will looks after us.” She played with the frayed ends of her stringy braids and the firelight flickered in her dark and narrow eyes.

She perked up and moved closer to Revik. Connor hoped that he had enough sleeping draught for tonight. The night before he decided he would try to sleep without aid. For the first hour all he could hear was Yaleen’s lusty sighs and Revik’s wanton grunts before he conceded and swallowed a mouthful of the draught. As the nights blurred together, he decided to follow them to Denerim—it was the easiest of routes. Other than treating him like a workhorse, they kept him fed, they knew the way, and they seemed to have the skill to get out of  trouble. Connor figured that he’d be wandering the woods for months on his own, or worse, arriving in Denerim stark naked. Flying to Denerim was an attractive idea, one he continued to turn over in his mind. However, he was too afraid of attracting attention to himself. A story of a wayward mage wandering naked in the streets of Denerim would surely make its way to the Chantry and to his father.  

“Circle mages don’t even stick together at the Circle.” Connor griped, throwing the fish bones onto the fire.

“Me and Yaleen, we comes from Jader. Pa kicked me out when I was twelve, right after I discovered I carried the magic.”

“What happened?” Connor asked, wondering if he conjured a demon as well.

“Nothing really. One day I just had the feeling come to me. Shot a bolt of lightning right out from the palm of my hand, right in front of da. He turned white as a sheet and sent me on me way. Didn’t want me to get caught up with the Chantry. Smart man my da. So off I went. Found Yaleen not two months later. Thems were some tough times, eh Yaleen?”

“You’ve been living in the woods all this time?” Connor asked, half wondering if he had now committed to a lifetime of wandering. That idea left him feeling uneasy. At some point in time, he imagined finding somewhere safe to settle, even if that meant leaving Ferelden. He hadn’t thought much about that either.

“We makes for the cities in the winter. Any sellsword will hire a couple mages to do their dirty work. We gets around, that’s for sure.” Revik took out his hunting knife and started to clean the inside of his nails. His hands were like leather and Connor thought there was enough dirt under them to sow an elfroot. He wished for a bathing pool like they had at the Circle, and he was starting to miss his warm bunk. Part of him also missed the predictability of his days, and he thought ruefully of Chanya, hoping she’d be okay without him. 

With a raised eyebrow and a wry smile, Revik asked, “Wanna know how we’ve made it all this time, just the two of us? We’ve killed our fair share of templars. Ain’t no match with the likes of us.”

“How?” Connor asked, glad that they were willing to have a conversation with him. He knew what they were going to say and he was glad that he had already eaten as his stomach started to knot. 

Yaleen pulled a knife that she kept strapped to her leg. “Watch.” She dragged it across her palm, not even flinching, until a crimson ribbon appeared, shiny and dripping. The knot in his tummy tightened as he watched the wound freely drip blood. He knew what was about to happen and could almost fell the veil tear around him. Yaleen licked a line that flowed down her wrist and then smeared the rest all over her hands. Raising her hands over the top of the fire, she concentrated and chanted under her breath.

A small Shade swirled from the smoke and flame. He had seen drawings of them in Circle texts, but none of the ink drawing compared to one live in the flesh. Its eyes glowed like ember and stared into Connor’s. He sat motionless, paralyzed. It was all muscle and ash, with a featureless serpentine head, save two glowing eyes that burned into his. The moment Connor reacted in fear, it writhed closer, swinging its ghastly claws at his him, hissing, calling to him. Its mouth gaped, swallowed the air around Connor as if it wanted to drink in all the space around him. 

Connor lurched away and cried out. Yaleen laughed and snapped her fingers. The Shade disappeared and Connor relaxed.

“You aint afraid of a little Shade are you? You Circle mages are so soft.”  Connor’s eight year old self returned. It was easy to remember the control and power the demon held over him.

“Aren’t you worried it will possess you?” he asked incredulously. 

Yaleen laughed again. “There is no fear with blood magic. I am the one who controls the Shade. Not the other way around.”

Connor perked up. “Demons don’t control you? You don’t become possessed?”

“Blood magic controls many types of beings.” She rubbed the wound on her hand with her thumb.

Connor thought on that for a moment. His hatred for demons was rooted in his fear and vulnerability from what happened to him during the Blight. He always suspected that the Circle was hiding something from him. No wonder they refused to teach him anything about them.

“Want to learn?” She asked in a seductive, sing-songy voice.

Connor’s heart pounded. “I…I don’t think so…”

“You too good for blood magic boy? You one of those self-righteous Circle types eh? Maybe that’s where you belong. Maybe we’ll just drop you off at the Chantry when we gets to Denerim.” Revik said.

“It’s not that…” Connor stammered.

“Then what is it? What kinds of magic do you know? What did the Circle teach you that will help us out?” Revik started picking his mahogany teeth with a sliver of wood.

“I know some fire spells and the First Enchanter says that I am a natural healer…”

“Fire spells eh? Enough to kill a templar?”

“Well no…” Connor’s face was starting to burn. He had come this far with them and wanted to at least get to Denerim.

“Can ya heal as well as Yaleen?”

Connor looked down at his lap and shook his head, ashamed he wasn’t just an escaped mage, but a useless one at that. Anders’s spell was his secret and he was going to keep that one close to his chest for the time being. He wasn’t sure yet if he wanted Revik and Yaleen to have the ability to fly. They might just abandon him the first chance they got.  

“Well, sounds like you need a bit of help, doesn’t it boy? Can’t have you running all over the woods with no real talent. Looks after yourself I says. If we meet up with the templars, its every mage for themselves. Don’t expect me to defend your skinny little ass.” Revik said. ‘They mights even offer us a reward for turning you back in…”

Connor seriously doubted that, but now that he was free from the Chantry’s clutches, he decided to take life by the horns. Revik’s rationale sounded perfectly sound.  He did need skill if he was going to survive on the run, and convinced himself that blood magic might be the best way to protect himself from demons.  

“Will you teach me?”

“We thought you’d never ask laddie.”


	7. Saunière

 

Saunière dismounted from his horse when he spied a small foot path winding up the side of the canyon. For the better part of the day they continued their journey through Tylus Canyon. Still trying to shake the sensation that they were not alone, he looked around, hoping for some outward evidence to prove that the heat had not driven him to madness. Their trail hugged the upper lip of the gorge, offering Saunière a sprawling view of jagged red stone that stretched to the horizon, crowned with fields of grassy plateaus. Frequently, he had turned to watch the trail behind them, but observed no falling stones, or any other outward sign that someone quietly followed in their footsteps. The horses sensed nothing either and that should have been a reassuring sign, but it wasn’t.  

Tassilo remained on his bloodmare and drank deeply from his wineskin, swaying with his mount’s gate. _By the Divine, it’s hot up here_ , Saunière grumbled under his breath as he pulled off his leather cavalier hat and wiped his dripping brow with his forearm. He noticed the plume in his hat, once white and alive with shifting tendrils, now hung limp in dirty clumps. _Feathers can be replaced_ , he thought, _great scholars rarely fly into my life_. The searing days and fridgid nights left him little hope that his friend and colleague, Balthazar Duchamp would have survived up here without supplies and shelter. _What sort of fool comes to do research here?_ That thought jolted Saunière from his inner monologue. _Whatever he was looking for was incredibily important._

Securing his hat in place, he encouraged his horse to quicken its pace. Saunière was uninterested in Orlesian fashion, an attitude that often irritated Tassilo. The only exception was his preference for wearing feathered hats. While his assistant drew great pride in his awareness of the trending styles, he was satisfied to wear just about anything that fit. And since he had stopped growing when he was thirty, he felt no need to invest his funds in the triviality of Orlesian dress. However, he was passionate about feathers. Whether it came from his appreciation for the weight of a fine quill or from fond childhood memories tending the falconry, Saunière could not be sure. He had been watching a condor wheel above the canyon for the past few hours and greatly desired a stiff black feather from its wingtip to stick in the band of his hat.

Taking the reins with his left hand, he pulled his notebook and monocle out of his well-worn riding coat and compared his map with the roughly drawn sketch sent by Duchamp’s assistant. As a droplet of sweat trickled off his forehead, he moved the book aside to avoid smudging the charcoal drawing. He wiped his lens as well, frustrated that his view was obstructed by dust and grime. 

“I suggest we continue on foot,” he said to Tassilo.

His assistant looked toward the sun and swung his legs off his horse, hopping onto the dusty path. “Are you sure? We only have a half day of light and water.”

Saunière scowled, “Have my hunches ever led us astray Tassilo?” The heat encouraged his cantankerousness; under less stressful conditions, he treated his assistant with respect and often depended on his opinion. His bad mood, thankfully, did not appear to bother Tassilo.

Tassilo started hiking up the path, a fine layer of stones slipped from beneath his boots, kicking up a fine mist of dust in his wake.  He pulled the horse with him by the reins while Saunière took meticulous notes of their location. With great care and effort they hiked up the steep incline, unable to see where the path was leading. Succulents with pointed barbs and tufts of grass flanked either side of the limestone rock formations. Some arched overhead, offering a momentary reprieve from the intensity of the sun. Other monoliths loomed like great towers, hewn by the passing of the ages. Tassilo disappeared around a bend and hollered excitedly.  When Saunière caught up to see what the commotion was all about, he nearly fell to his knees in amazement.

Engraved into the rock wall was a carved relief, impressive and awe-inspiring in size. At the centre was the figure of a woman, at least the height of two tall men. Tassilo bowed reverently, while Saunière wrote rapidly in shorthand.

_Two days hike north of Nessum, using the map as marked by Duchamp; we stumbled upon an impressive relief depicting the martyrdom of Holy Andraste._ _She is bound to a column, a pyre surrounds her and flame licks her feet. To the right, are what I assume to be representations of twenty Tevinter magisters (further research will be required to establish this with more certainty). The leader (?) holding aloft his staff, ignites the pyre with fire magic. Interesting to note here, their portrayal is contrary to Frere Alphand’s theory that early Tevinter mages used wands. They wear hooded robes, their feet are bare. Each magister has a pointed beard. An arcane language is carved into the relief above them._

Saunière looked up from his writing. “Take some stone rubbings of that text over on the right Tassilo.” Tassilo stood exactly where Saunière referred, tracing his fingers over the strange letters, moving his mouth silently. Saunière continued writing.

_To the left Andraste are a group of… Followers? Devotees? There is a mixture of what I guess are elves and men. Their dress is far plainer than that of the magisters and the sculptor had etched horror and despair on each of their faces. Some are on their knees, with arms extended.  Weathering of the relief makes is difficult to determine the gender of these figures. They are in plain clothing; there are no depictions of weaponry to lead us to think that the figures represent some sort of rebel force. Script had been carved above these figures as well, but it has been defaced and is unreadable._

_Andraste herself is a vision of serenity. Her figure is nude, she wears a diadem (which I believe is a symbol representing her divine nature) and she holds an object in her hand. One arm is bound behind her back; the other is holding the object, almost in an act of rebellion. It is difficult to ascertain the nature of this object, whether it is a symbolic mace, denoting an act of defiance. It could be a wand (which would be significant) or perhaps a sceptre (again underscoring her association with the Maker). This object bears no resemblance to the magisters’ staves. It is at least the length of two hands, and the circumference of disk on top is roughly the size of my hand. Due to weathering, the detail inside the disk is obscured. Over Andraste’s head arches a message, the letters are at least triple in size compared to any other text. It is in no language that I recognize._

The text would be too high to complete a rubbing, so Saunière carefully copied the phrase into his book. Excitedly, Tassilo ran over to the professor waving a parchment.

“I’ve never seen anything like this _professeur_! This script is quite ancient.”

“Can you make any sense of it?” Saunière continued to write frantically, taking down as much detail as his hands would allow and tried to burn the image of the relief into his mind. He would send an expedition as soon as he returned to the university to create a more precise reproduction. This one rock wall would provide him with years of research.

“The verb morphology is related to ancient Tevinter, but the syntax is very unusual. It is reminiscent to the early writings from Halamshiral. It is a very unusual Tevinter-Dalish hybrid that uses a verb-subject-object sentence order…I’ve never seen the likes of it before. Once I get back to Val Royeaux I shall start work on the translation.”

“Elvish! I did not expect that. What about this script here, over Andraste’s head?” Tassilo looked carefully.

“That…I have never seen anything like it before. It does not use the same alphabet as the text associated with the magisters. I wouldn’t dare hazard a guess about its origins.” 

Saunière stuffed the notebook back into his pocket. “Unfortunately, that will have to wait. We are getting close. Duchamp must have been over the moon to stumble upon this.” He returned to his horse munching on a patch of wild grass and continued up the steep climb.

Around a ledge, the path ended at the face of the canyon. A door had been set inside a natural fissure, once hidden by scrub and other vegetation. It had recently been cut back to expose the entrance. Saunière quickly tied up his horse and unfastened the leather straps that held his broadsword to the saddle and swung it over his shoulder. Years of templar training had taught him to always investigate mysterious dark places with a weapon. Even though he still took time between research and teaching to practice in the training yard, he was an old man and hoped his survival did not depend on how many summers he had seen. Tassilo also prepared for their expedition, and strapped his longbow and quiver onto his back. He handed Saunière a lantern and approached the entrance.

Saunière pointed to a doorway that now resembled the cliff’s gaping maw. “Felix described this in his message and mentioned that Duchamp entered with his team, while Felix and a handful of others kept guard outside. When they had not heard from him for the better part of a day, Felix sent his hired guard to Nessum to deliver his message.”

“Has anyone heard from Felix, since the message was sent?” Tassilo asked, investigating the area and finding nothing of consequence, not even a wayward footprint. 

Saunière’s grim expression told Tassilo the answer. With renewed determination, he approached the door. Its casing still remained, decorated in intricate carvings of dragons, griffons and a bestiary of creatures long extinct from Thedas. The wooden door had rotted away and remnants lay scattered just inside the entrance. Tentatively, Tassilo stuck his head inside and recoiled, retching.

“Death…smells like death.”

Saunière had smelled refuse behind slaughterhouses in Val Royeaux and this was far worse.

“Duchamp, what have you gotten yourself into my friend…” he said sullenly. Boldly he entered the darkness, holding the lantern in front of him. From the sphere of weak light, he saw the interior had been carefully built into the cave with limestone brick. He tried to ignore the smell, but it was so thick that it coated his tongue. In order to force himself further inside, he covered his mouth and nostrils with his handkerchief. 

Inside the door, he raised his lantern, noticing a stairwell that dropped deep inside the mountain and investigated what lie on either side of the expansive entryway. Something caught his eye in a far corner and he tentatively approached.

The flickering light of the lantern exposed a foot, and as Saunière continued, the darkness retreated to reveal a man’s leg. He nearly dropped the lantern when the glow caught a pale face.

“Dear Divine!” His voice hollowly echoed inside the cavern. Setting his lantern down, he ran toward the man. “Duchamp my friend. I have come.”

He was grey and his breathing was shallow. Saunière turned to Tassilo. “We need to get him out of here.”

Tassilo kneeled and checked his vitals, examining his frail body. “ _Professeur_ , I don’t dare move him. His wounds are beyond my skill.” Tassilo gently pulled up his eyelids and inspected the think milky film that masked his irises. Dark grey veins laced his face. “I think this is the taint, professeur…”

Duchamp’s mouth quivered in great effort. Saunière took him in his arms. The old scholar’s portly figure had withered to nothing more than ancient bones stretched over papery skin. Even his unruly snow white hair had wilted. Tassilo tipped his wineskin to his cracked lips but was unable to encourage the old man to drink.

“Fiona…” Duchamp rattled.  “Find Fiona…she…help you…”

“His mind is taken _professeur_ , he speaks with the madness of death.”

Saunière ignored Tassilo’s logic, and stroked his mentor’s head, kissing the top of his head. “I will find Fiona, hush and save your strength old friend.”

A thin smile appeared on the old man’s face, followed by a gradual loss of all expression. His pain and suffering dissolved the moment that his eyes fluttered close.

“I’ve failed you, my teacher.” Saunière whispered, holding his limp hand to his lips.

With two fingers, Tassilo gently shut his eyes and chanted:

_“O Maker, hear my cry:_

_Seat me by Your side in death_

_Make me one within Your glory_

_And let the world once more see Your favor.”_

 

Mournfully, he looked up at Saunière, his eyes tormented and glistening.  “Shall we search his body, professeur?”

The thought of investigating his warm corpse seemed to be the ultimate desecration to his memory, but Saunière’s resourcefulness prevailed. Respectfully, they removed his personal effects: his seal ring, an ivory handled dagger, a handful of gold and silver coin and the family sword that he still clutched in his hand. When Saunière was done, he covered his body in dried leaves and lit them on fire.

“He shall burn like the kings of old. Rest with the Maker.” Bitterness and smoke caught in his throat, along with a renewed determination. “I may have failed in his rescue, but I will complete his research, if it is the last thing my aching bones allow.”

“Where is his notebook?” Tassilo asked, watching the flame begin to consume the old man’s corpse. Saunière had to turn his back to the smouldering pyre; he could not bear to watch any longer.

“That is a very good question. One might guess that his notes are worth killing for.” He said, stepping down the staircase that dropped deep into the darkness. A stone caught the tip of his boot and bounced down, clicking far below.

“Watch yourself Tassilo, these stairs are steep.”

Slipping his foot onto the step below, a thousand invisible strands brushed over his face and stuck into his stubble. With his free hand, he tried to remove the webs but they slipped through his hands and wove their way even deeper into the month-long growth. Swinging the lantern to the side, he inspected the walls. Faded murals decorated the staircase walls, portraying a great procession of jubilant pilgrims. Elves and humans, men, women and children danced their way down the stairs alongside of Saunière and Tassilo. Great banners depicting sigils from families and clans long lost to the passing of time flowed in the wind. Children held aloft long daisy chains while foxes jaunted at their heels. Above them, griffons soared between the clouds and small birds perched atop the mages’ staves. The mural nearly brought a tear to his eye and he almost lost his footing on the edge of a stone step. Did Duchamp have the chance to marvel these paintings? His exploration turned bittersweet, as if every step forward was a eulogy to his mentor, but he required his detached eye to accomplish this task. Tears offered no comfort or assistance.

Tassilo stood beside him, holding his lantern to the wall on his left. On the opposite side, the wall was painted in choppy, rough brushstrokes, giving a more sinister feel. A massive dragon, most likely an Archdemon, flew toward the exit. Fire spewed from its mouth, incinerating masses of fallen dwarves and men. Ogres and their massive horns gored wyverns, hurlocks ripped apart elves with their bare hands. Smoke and flame curled up the stairwell; so realistic that Saunière swore he could smell it until he realized it was Duchamp’s remains that burned his senses.

The stairwell was a study in contrasts and a work of art he hoped to share with all of Thedas. Tassilo nudged Saunière with his elbow and took a few more steps down. An angry stain had been splattered on the mural. Tassilo touched it and rubbed it between his fingers, taking a quick taste and spat.

“This is fresh, _mon professeur_ , but it is not human.” He cautiously removed his longbow and held it in front of him.

The professor continued his descent; the stairs continued down and down and eventually grew slippery. Looking down, he feared seeing a pool of blood, but only saw the reflecting lantern light on the shiny wet surface. The air was growing damper and the horrible smell, mixing with the whiff of Duchamp’s pyre, was ripening. Tassilo covered his mouth and nose with his forearm and groaned with revulsion. Saunière just wanted this eternal descent, into Maker knew where, to end. Just as he was about to bend his aching knee to take another step, his foot found the bottom.

They travelled down a narrow hallway to a door. The smell intensified and a dark pile obstructed their path. Tassilo bent lower with his lantern and the light illuminated a set of fangs. The remains of what was once a mouth, now rotted away and stretched over its gums, howled silently at Saunière. Its good eye stared widely, opaque and white as milk. The other, oozed blood and jelly from the arrow that embedded its socket. Every orifice and wound writhed, as maggots crawled and consumed the decaying flesh. The hairs on the back of Saunière’s neck stood on end.

“A genlock. Professeur, this is not good.” 

“Duchamp…Maker have mercy.” Saunière grunted and stepped over the corpse.

Tentatively, he reached for the door’s iron latch and pushed it open. Its hinges creaked from centuries of neglect, but swung open easily. Bright light temporarily blinded both Saunière and Tassilo as they stepped into a great vaulted gallery, as high as the canyon above them. In evenly spaced squares in the ceiling, the rock had been carved away to allow the sunlight to illuminate the belly of the mountain. Saunière extinguished his lantern and set it by the door.  The spine of the vault was covered in vine and hung in lush tendrils far above. A strange fog drifted near the floor. Saunière could hear the echoes of falling water, but could not ascertain the direction. The walls of the great hall were austere and lacked in ornamentation. A great colonnade ran the entire length with spiraled columns twisting to the roof. 

“This does not look like the work of the dwarves. The old Thaigs tended to have a more angular design.” Tassilo said, as he stared up in amazement.

Small birds fluttered overhead, building nests in the foliage above and perched on the edge of the sky light.

“The Dalish were known to build temples. I heard about one in the Brecilian forest, where a strange eluvian was discovered and has since disappeared. But this is strange; there is no record that they built monuments this close to the Imperium.”  Saunière replied, craning his neck to take everything in. But despite the magnificence, the genlock’s corpse haunted him and a deep sorrow swelled in his heart as he thought of his mentor.

They walked over the smooth tile, a busy mosaic of coloured stone the looped and whorled around the pillars. The clean air that filtered from above, offered a momentary reprieve from the rotting stench of the genlock. Fear was beginning to paralyze Saunière. Of course he was aware that Darkspawn travelled in hoards. A lonely genlock could only mean one thing: more Darkspawn. A small doorway set into the wall at the end of the hall drew Saunière’s attention.

“Shall we keep going?” Tassilo asked, as he hesitated, in an anxious whisper. Saunière assumed that Tassilo’s fear was getting the better of him as well.

Saunière drew his sword, the metal swished and echoed around them. “We haven’t come all this way for naught. Pull yourself together. Duchamp discovered something down here.”

To abandon their colleague’s quest was an act of cowardice that both men wished to avoid. Tassilo held his lantern aloft and followed Saunière down the winding corridor. It branched in two directions. Saunière stood at the doorway while Tassilo quickly investigated both passageways. The walls were inset with niches that protected marble griffon sentinels, sitting proudly with their wings neatly folded; their angular beaks and feathered ears poised at attention.

“I suggest we stick together.” Tassilo said, his voice echoing through the passageway. “By the looks of it, we have a fair amount of ground to cover.”

“No fear, my dear Tassilo. I have no intention of wandering off on my own.”

They followed the long corridor that opened up to new hallways on either side. Surely, it would take years to investigate every inch of the structure. The deeper they travelled, the more Saunière tried to muster his courage. Surely, the Darkspawn must have retreated and found their way back to the Deep Roads, he hoped.

 They turned a corner and entered a large octagonal shaped room with a door set in each side. A massive pillar stood at the center, with a single doorway. Saunière turned to Tassilo, about to discuss their next step, when a growl echoed from a passageway. Tassilo swung the lantern into the sound’s direction and Saunière raised his sword, his heart beginning to pound underneath his coat. An arrow sailed past his head and bounced off the pillar behind him. Its fletching was unmistakably Darkspawn in origin. As adrenaline surge through him, he hoped that he still had some fight left in him.

“Take cover Tassilo!”

From every entryway, Darkspawn rushed in and Saunière lost count after twenty. Tassilo’s arrows felled the weakest and Saunière stood his ground, awaiting the first attack. A hurlock, swung at him, savagely grunting and snaring.  With his family sword, _Wyvern du fléau,_ Wyvern’s Bane, he tightened his grip and swung, his body still remembering his templar training. The hurlock blocked with a shield, no more than a sheet of rusted metal, and forced Saunière against the wall. Since there was no honour to be gained in this battle, he fought dirty, jabbing at the knees and the groin. As the hurlock lowered his shield to block another of Saunière’s low lunges, the professor saw his moment and stabbed the beast in the neck. After it fell, he landed more hits for good measure and searched for Tassilo. A genlock quickly advanced before Saunière could recover. Resuming his stance, the Genlock flew backwards with an expertly launched arrow to his jugular. The crisp white fletching assured Saunière that Tassilo had him covered.

Maker he ached. He was drenched in sweat and every muscle burned. His knees, his arms and by the Divine his head was pounding with every maul ever crafted in Orzammar. He hovered against the central pillar, hearing the snarls in the distance. 

More Darkspawn stormed into the room. For a moment, Saunière wanted to use the sword to slice his own wrists instead of allowing the Darkspawn the pleasure. Tassilo’s arrows continued to fly overhead, each landing their marks. A faint hope swelled in Saunière’s heart.

Prepared for another attack, Darkspawn surrounded him, Saunière could do nothing but parry attacks, there were too many now to engage. A fluttering caught the corner of his eye, although he dared not inspect it any further. Distraction only meant death. He focused on the swords, daggers and hissing beasts. His arm was bleeding from a gash that he could not recollect. Saunière, a man too cerebral to believe in omnipotent beings, prayed for the first time in his life. 


	8. Kessler

A dog-eared card was tucked at the bottom of the draw pile, poking out just enough to expose the faded ink illustration of the ace of pikes. In his hand, the four of runes was nestled between the knave and queen of pikes. Pikes were trump.

“Greer, you gonna play a card or what?” Derko asked, sitting on a pillow, resting his elbows on his knees. He had just played the ace of runes. Kessler could have played either of his face cards to win at least twenty-three points, enough to put him way ahead, but he thought better of it. Beside the cards were neatly stacked columns of copper and silver coin on top of the low table. Hawke straightened a coin tower on the verge of collapse and threw down the four.

Derko’s face brightened. “That’ll be another copper in the kitty, Serah Greer.”

Reaching into his pocket and pulling out a tarnished copper, Kessler started a new stack as he feigned frustration.

It was the night following the caravan ‘accident’. Sitting crossed legged on a large pillow in the Wounded Axe, Kessler Hawke, better known in Nessum as Arlen Greer, was savoring a spicy tobacco and a bottle of brandy, two Antivan delicacies that brought more satisfaction than playing this  game. On the far side of the room, Hagen’s lovelies were gyrating to the rhythm of a hand drum while a prune of a man plucked mournfully on a zither, his fingers like spiders as they danced along the strings. Kessler was getting bored of winning and tried his hand at losing for a while, hoping that it might spark some long lost sense of ambition. Isabela had taught him how to play _bix,_ a simple trick-taking game that allowed players to imbibe copious amounts of ale as they tried to follow relatively simple rules. Of course, when he played with Isabela, he never let her win and played long enough to get the satisfaction that they were at least evenly matched. No matter how much he won from her, in the wee hours of the morning after the bar had closed and the money was pocketed, he’d take her to his place and they’d release the tensions built up from the serious business of competitive gambling.

He fiddled with the bronze mouthpiece of his hookah, checking the heat of the coal, and deeply inhaled. Spicy smoke rolled past his tongue, leaving a sensuous taste of green apple and cardamom. The smell reminded him of Isabela as well and he exhaled with genuine frustration.

“Come now, a little losing streak shouldn’t get you all blue,” chided Derko.

Each man drew new cards. Kessler picked the three of pikes. Little chance he’d be able to throw this hand away now. Threes beat every in face card in bix.

Turovich and Guza had disappeared around the time Derko paid for an evening of drinks and whores. There was no way that Kessler would go within a pike length of any woman who lay near those two and resigned to an evening of pretending to lose to Derko. At least he had the brandy and it was almost drinkable.

“You’re a funny man, Greer.” Derko said and then groaned like a spoiled child when he realized that he had lost that hand.

“Oh yes, a barrel of laughs.” Kessler raised an eyebrow and blew smoke rings at his opponent.

“That was the easiest job in the history of odd jobs. We just walked away with a purse of gold, and here you sit like you just lost your best friend. You need a woman? Want another drink?”

Kessler credited him for trying to ensure his well-being, but fun was the last thing that he had on his mind. Fearing that shutting himself in his room might be regarded with a degree of suspicion, he decided to humor Derko and share in the spoils. Wasting the slavers’ coin in the brothel seemed the proper thing to do after all.

“You ever stop to consider who might come looking for that…shipment?” he asked, shuffling the deck, dealing the cards and then taking a sip of his brandy.

“Well ain’t that the beauty if it! Mooney ain’t gonna come looking for nothing…don’t tells me you’re that daft to forget that he be lying in the middle of the road in his own shite.”

Kessler lifted the first card of the deck to specify the trump suit. Roses. He looked at his hand and had the five, two and ace of roses. Kessler sighed at the irony that he was failing at losing. “Your go. Let’s not forget that someone is expecting that wagon to arrive in Nevarra City in a few days.”

Derko played the ace of wands, losing eleven points to Kessler. “You don’t suppose they’ll come looking for us?” He scratched his chin; the question elicited more attention than losing another hand.

Kessler just gave him a knowing look. “Just pray to the Old Gods that Mooney was dealing with a Baron too broke to hire mercenaries to recoup his losses.” He inhaled on the pipe again, listening to the water bubble in the glass bowl. When he was done, he stood, wove his fingers together and stretched his arms over his head. “It’s getting stuffy in here. I’m going to get some fresh air.”

“But we ain’t finished playing…”

“Guess you’re on a winning streak there Derko. I had better quit while I am ahead,” he said, throwing down his cards, face down.

He grabbed his drink and headed for the door, lifting the curtain that separated the steamy air in the brothel from that of the street. It was marginally cooler outside and the mud brick buildings were open wide to encourage a breeze. The peddlers and traders had packed up for the night, but Nessum’s main road still buzzed with activity. Colourful paper lanterns were strung between the buildings, offering a festive feel to the street. In the heat of the night, men lounged beside their stalls, drinking, singing and gambling. A man played a wooden wind instrument, one Kessler had never seen before. It was incredibly long, fashioned from ebony and horn and sloped dramatically to the ground. The sound was equally strange—deep, reverberating and exotic.

Equally exotic, but less strange, were Hagen’s lovelies leaning against the façade of the Wounded Axe, encouraging the passers-by to taste their wares. Even in their flimsy silks, they could not escape the stifling mugginess. Their ebony hair was piled tall on their heads with scarves and their kohl had smudged under their lashes, creating a deeper layer of mystery in their smoky eyes.

Kessler smiled at them as he stretched, quickly coming to the conclusion that it was time to move on. He thought of wandering further north. The Anderfels, it was rumoured, was best enjoyed in the middle of the summer rather than in the dead of winter. In a rare moment of honesty, he thought about landing in some small hamlet and staying for a month or a year, find himself a woman, settle down and have a couple of kids. In the back of his mind, he heard Isabela’s husky laugh mock him.

He finished his drink and handed the tumbler to one of the lovelies. When she rolled her eyes dramatically at him, he kissed the air.

“That’ll cost you if you don’t watch yourself, Greer.” Magalie said, sensuously wiping a finger around the interior of the tumbler and then sucked on her finger suggestively. 

“You should be paying me for the attention little lamb,” he winked. 

An old man chewing on a pipe, emerged from the shadows. Kessler recognized him as one of the carpet merchants, a man who never tired of idle chatter. Tevinter textiles were highly desired in Orlais, which Kessler found to be rather hypocritical. Even his mother, who was rather progressive when it came to matters of magic and slavery, treasured the finely woven brocades and silks that came from the Vyrantium mills. When he first wandered into Nessum, the carpet merchant had sparked up casual conversation and informed him that shipments arrived on the turn of each moon, ready to be dispatched south to discerning Orlesian specialty shops. Kessler thought about establishing some similar business in Hossberg, and imagined that it would be easy to make a killing selling luxurious silks. However, that enterprise would entail turning a blind eye to the slaves who worked the looms, so he decided he’d better manage his conscience selling cheese to Ferelden. Not as lucrative, but it would make for a great cover. The Chantry would never suspect the Champion of Kirkwall ending up in Hossberg as a humble cheese maker. 

“You hear about that slaver wagon that crashed just north of town?” The carpet dealer asked, pulling the pipe from his lips.

“Only the whispers in the Axe,” Kessler said.

“Saw a group of Seekers heading down to investigate.”

“Seekers?” Kessler had few dealings with the Order of Seekers, agreeing to help a certain Sister Nightingale convince Grand Cleric Elthina to leave Kirkwall. Little that accomplished; her body would never be recovered from the debris. They were an order closely associated with the Chantry, and if they were sniffing around the accident that meant one thing: Kessler had to leave Nessum that night. The last thing he wanted was for them to pick up the trail of the Champion of Kirkwall.

“Why would Seekers be interested in a bunch of escaped slaves, or a dead Tevinter slaver at that?”

“Aye, strange indeed I’d say. Rumour has it that the slaver was a spy for the Chantry, coming to deliver an important message. ‘Course you can’t believe everything you hear I ‘spose. Also heard that shipment was heading right for Val Royeaux and was to be delivered directly to the Divine.”

“I doubt that. Orlais can hand pick their servants from any of the cities alienages for free. Why buy slaves from Tevinter of all places?”

“I just spread the gossip, sonny, I don’t make it up.”

“They come into town yet?” Kessler said, immediately regretting his directness.

“Long enough to poke about and ask about the caravan. Arrived around dusk, both Nevarrans, incidentally. Personally, I can’t stand the Orlesians. Got their noses stuck right up the Chantry’s arse if you ask me, too much for my liking anyway. I suspect that they’ll wander through and get tempted by Hagen’s women, just like everyone else who comes to town.” He blew a steady stream of smoke into the night air.

From across the road, a group of men burst out laughing. At the same time, a fight broke out two stalls down. Kessler scanned the street, keeping an eye out for templars and Seekers. Tonight, the locals milled about, hoping to escape the heat. The first word on everyone’s lips was the accident. No one seemed particularly concerned; it was just another story that would pass from trader to merchant.   

Whether Nevarran or Orlesian, the Seeker’s nationality mattered little to Kessler. A Seeker was a Seeker, another bothersome group affiliated with the Chantry. He made some excuse about settling his tab with the barkeep and headed straight for the back of the Axe, down the hall and into his room.

His room was oppressively dark. When the dim lantern light from the hallway entered along with him, Shasta pounced to attention, growling.

“It’s just me boy.” Kessler whispered, giving him a quick pat along the back and lit an oil lamp on the rough wooden table. A moth fluttered and bounced relentlessly off the glass shade, projecting a monstrous flickering shadow on the opposite wall.  

“Ready to head up north, Shas?” The dog’s tail wiggled as he followed Kessler around the room, watching his master stuff his few belongings into a backpack.

“Yeah, Nessum is getting a bit dull, too hot. Never did get to know Magalie better. Oh well. Maybe I’ll have better luck in Hossberg. Wouldn’t it be nice if I didn’t have to buy a lady’s services—”

Someone knocked abruptly at the door.

“Fuck off Derko! I’m done for the night. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Kessler shoved the remainder of his filthy clothes into his bag and tied the drawstring.

“I’m looking for a man named Greer,” said the voice from behind the door.   

“I’m sleeping.” Kessler called back, buckling his scabbard over his shoulder.

“I have to insist that you open this door.”

Kessler snapped his finger and pointed under the bed. Shasta obeyed his command and crawled into his hiding space.

Before opening it, he leaned on the jamb. “And who are you?” The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, not feeling at all prepared for the conversation that would follow. At that moment he vowed to track down Anders and wrap his fingers around his scrawny little neck for getting him into this situation. He hated being in hiding and constantly watching his back.   

“Seeker Renner. If you refuse to open the door, I shall prevail upon the proprietor to open it up on behalf of Her Holiness the Divine Justinia the Fifth.”

He looked to his open window, carefully weighing his choices _. If I run, it is no different than admitting my guilt. There will be no safe haven_. He unlocked the deadbolt and cracked open the door. A man, tall and fair, in leathers emblazoned with the all-seeing eye stood in the hallway. His weapon was not drawn and the hallway was empty. Kessler considered his chances to be slightly better than they had been moments before.

“Just a moment of your time, Serah Greer.” Seeker Renner grabbed the edge of the door and pushed himself inside, walking past Kessler as he inspected his quarters. “Mind if I ask you a few questions about a recent incident?” He fiddled with his gloves; his statement was more of a directive than a question.

“Ask away.” Kessler said, inviting the Seeker to sit at his table.

“A slaver caravan was attacked last night. Did you hear anything about it?” He sat attentively, crossing his legs. His Nevarran accent was quite thick and his face exceptionally young and fresh. His eyes shifted frequently, darting about the room, attempting to deduce more information about the man he was questioning. Of course, Kessler’s scrutiny commenced the moment the Seeker had opened his mouth. Physically, he was brawny, thick-limbed and likely adept in the training yard.  Kessler guessed he had been recently promoted to a junior-level rank and had proven himself worthy to attend matters without supervision. However, he was sufficiently inexperienced and thus assigned to a low priority case in remote northern Nevarra. While he would be equally matched physically with the Seeker, Kessler thought he’d had the advantage with regard to wits.

“Sure. Tongues wag at the Axe. Everyone is talking about it.”

The Seeker grimaced, already growing frustrated. “And can you elaborate on that, Serah?”

“I can, if you are interested in hearsay.”

The Seeker demonstrated little control or awareness over his frustration. Kessler decided that it was time to switch tactics. He leaned closer and whispered, “But I can point you right to the source.”

“Go on.”

“What can the Order offer by way of protecting my anonymity? I fear the repercussions of…speaking out against these locals. You’re aware of the codes of silence that folk abide by here?”

The Seeker cocked his head and continued to listen attentively; his shoulders relaxed a little and eased the grip between his woven fingers. “The Order is quite capable of protecting those with information, Serah. Would you prefer to speak in a safer environment? That can be arranged quite easily.”

“What might you consider safe, Seeker?”

“We have an outpost, just south of the city where we can meet and discuss matters discreetly. I can escort you there now.”

Kessler scowled; this time it was genuine. “And what will the Wounded Axe think when I am being lead out of a brothel in the company of a Seeker? This offers nothing by way of anonymity. I need more than that.”

“Very well, Serah. Take the south road, on the third cart track to the right, travel toward the river. You will see a farmstead settled near a cypress grove. Tell the guard that I have sent for you. Meet me shortly after dawn tomorrow.” He stood up and straightened out his uniform. “Might I suggest that you arrive early?” He looked directly at Kessler’s pack. “We are watching the Axe. Anyone caught sneaking out in the middle of the night will sure to be followed and will be escorted…in chains. You may want to pass that along to anyone thinking of leaving Nessum tonight.”

Kessler did not react to Renner’s warning and opened his door. “I will be sure to pass the message along. Until tomorrow then.”

Renner bowed his head politely and took his leave without a word. When the door shut behind him, Shasta scrambled from under the bed, jumped on top, turned three times and went back to sleep.

“Fucking Chantry.” Kessler grumbled, grabbing the last of his precious Rivaini rum and popping the cork.

Of course he had the guile and the wits to escape from the Axe. His window opened to an alleyway and there was a stack of crates just outside that was perfect for climbing to the low roof. With no moon, it would be easy to slip into shadow. However, escape was the riskier choice, and he decided to comply with Seeker Renner’s request. Turning the Vipers over to the Chantry would keep both parties sufficiently occupied until he managed to head north. Sometimes, walking straight into the dragon’s lair was safer than allowing it to pursue you in the dead of night.

He slammed the bottle on the table with every intention of consuming every drop.

“Fuck Andraste and fuck the Maker! Fuck, fuck fuck…”

~0oOo0~

He left the Axe shortly before dawn with another pounding headache. He supposed he could have swallowed a health potion before he left, even conjure a healing spell, but it felt like too much effort. Plus, he did not want to take the chance of having any minute amount of lyrium on his person. He didn’t know the extent of a Seeker’s abilities. Were Seekers able to sniff out mages just like their templar brothers? There were some mechanics of the Chantry that he never understood. Once Carver joined, his curiosity turned to bitterness, and never had the opportunity to investigate further. Of course there were rumours that templars had some precognition when it came to magic, but Kessler was never able to confirm or deny that. 

“Where you off to?” Derko was standing near the front of the brothel and spit as he saw Kessler approach.

“Heading out for the day.”  He had no patience for small talk, especially now that he had an appointment to keep. “Thought you’d be in bed. Or have you been to bed yet? Still up spending Mooney’s spoils?” He wondered if Derko noticed the Renner at his door last night.

“Naw, Turovich and Guza are still going strong. Nearly got thrown out last night. Turo got a bit rough with one of Hagen’s girls. Turns out that she is tougher that him. He’s gonna have scars, that for sure. How ‘bout you? Surprised to see you up and around this early.” _He must have been preoccupied last night with the lovelies._

“I got a job.” Kessler replied, knowing that it wouldn’t be enough to sate Derko’s curiosity. “Some stables just outside of town need cleaning. Farmer is offering a decent wage.”

“Greer, my man. A farm hand?” His girth jiggled as he laughed. 

“Work is work, Derko. I’m not afraid of a little effort or a bit of horse-shit either. The Viper’s aren’t exactly keeping me gainfully employed, so a man has to make certain sacrifices to pay for his whores.” He started to walk away, now looking forward to what he was about to do.

“Suit yourself, Farmer Greer.”

“Fuck off Derko.”

“You must be the sort of fellow who needs to get the last word in, eh?”

“Fuck off Derko,” he replied flatly.

~0oOo0~

When at last he reached the Seeker outpost, Kessler sent Shasta into the brush to hunt. They had taken over an otherwise abandoned farmstead with a number of ramshackle outbuildings. He noticed that what used to be the stables was now a series of open air cells that were reassuringly unoccupied. A guard was posted at the door and a few others were training with straw men in the back. The posted guard watched Kessler ambling casually down the lane. Whether Kessler’s nerves or hangover was getting the better of him, he couldn’t be sure, as he had an overwhelming desire to eject his meagre breakfast of dates and flat bread. It was going to be another sweltering day, without a cloud on the horizon, which only served to exacerbate his present condition.

“Arlen Greer to see Seeker Renner. I trust that he has informed you that he is expecting me.” The guard, already sweating inside his black leathers, nodded and opened the door.

“Go on in.” The guard said. “Renner! Serah Greer has arrived.”

Renner was sitting at a decaying table, propped up with crates and eating a heaping portion of sausage he had fried in the hearth. The chimney must have been blocked and smoke hovered like a fog inside the small farmstead.

“Serrah Greer. Beautiful morning, care for some?” He pointed to the half-burned sausages.

The smell curdled the contents of Kessler’s stomach. “Just water, if you have any.”

Renner’s leathers were folded neatly on the back of his chair. Wearing only an undershirt, he was otherwise fully equipped from the waist down. He must have just bathed; his blonde hair was combed neatly back and was still wet. Kessler noticed his bow and quiver propped against the wall behind him. He was armed as well, not necessarily intending on starting a fight but unwilling to walk the roads unprotected. Sipping the lukewarm water in a tin cup, he quietly waited for Renner to initiate the conversation.

“This should only take a few minutes of your time. The Divine appreciates your cooperation with this matter. So, what information have you about this recent Caravan mishap?” He started to cut the greasy sausages on his plate and sopped the juices up with a piece of bread. It was reassuring that the conversation was somewhat casual. Kessler was certain that somewhere on the property there was a small dimly lit room where the more formal interrogations were conducted.  

“You heard of the Vipers?” Kessler asked.

“Only in passing. From what we were able to gather, they are no more than a few troublemakers out to fund their antics at the Wounded Axe. What do you know of them?”

“Chap named Derko is the leader. They are self-proclaimed Crow hunters. Can’t say I quite understand their motivations. Derko wanted to hire me to meet a Tevinter caravan and escort it to Nevarra.” Kessler said, weaving his hands together and resting them behind his head.

“Hire you? Why did they approach you?”

“I’m looking for work. Derko found me at the Axe, knew that I was for hire.”

“You from around here?”

“No. I’ve been rather nomadic for the past few years. Still trying to find my calling. Thinking of making my way to Rivain. Heard there is plenty of work with the city guard, keeping the pirates under control and all.”

“And where do you hail from?”

“Tantervale. My folks fled Ferelden during the Orlesian invasion. Both died a couple years back. Nothing untoward. The Black Flu got them both. Been a bit of a wanderer ever since, trying to find the best place to grow some roots.” As he told the story, he thought of his mother to fuel his expression.

Renner nodded. “That outbreak took a lot of good people.” Kessler’s story seemed to satisfy him. “About this Derko character, did he tell you much about this…job?”

“A Tevinter slaver called Munatius had often employed him, couple times a year he’d hire four locals from Nessum to escort his caravan to Nevarra City.”

“And did you take the job?”

“No, not at first. Told him I had a problem helping slavers. He must have been desperate. Offered me a fair amount of coin and told me to meet him at the Fork after dusk if I had a change of heart. Problem is, my curiosity always gets the better of me. At sunset, I decided to wander down, check things out for myself. I had no intentions of going to as far as Nevarra though.”

“Did you go to the Fork at Dusk?”

“I did. When I arrived, Derko was nervous…the slaver was late. So we wandered down the road—”

 “—and who else was there?”

“Two others, two small fellows from Wildervale, brothers I think. Guza and Turovich. We walked north, eventually came upon the scene of the accident.”

“Can you describe the scene for me?”

“Sure. The wagon was on its side, the oxen and the driver were dead and the cargo was missing.”

“Did you see any of the elven slaves?”

“No ser.” Kessler shook his head and looked him directly in the eye.

“Did you see anyone else in the area at the time?”

“Not a soul, ser.”

“Is there any other detail you think might be important to this investigation?”

Kessler thought on that question for a moment. “Only that Derko searched the driver’s body and took his money.”

“Indeed. Interesting. And what did you do afterwards?”

“We went back to the Axe.”

“Did you find it at all strange that the oxen’s throats were slashed, Ser Greer?”

“I did, which is why I high-tailed it out of there and back to the Axe. That road can hide any number of sketchy characters.” Kessler leaned forward. “I’m sticking my neck way out for you guys. If the Vipers learn where you got your information…” Kessler traced a finger across his throat.

Renner took a napkin and wiped the corners of his mouth and sipped a mouthful of tea. “The Seekers are very discreet, Serah. You have my assurances. Thank-you for your time. I know you are anxious to get out of Nessum, but I’d like to ask you to stay back, at least until we get the Vipers into custody.”

“I can’t promise that I’ll stick around if Derko comes pounding on my door in a fury.”

“That won’t happen, Serah.”

Renner stood up and motioned for the door. “The Divine appreciates your cooperation.” He handed Kessler a small pouch of coin. “A little something to tide you over for the day.”

“Please, donate it to the Chantry orphans.” Kessler replied, pushing the purse back as he opened the door.

“As you wish, ser.”

In the yard, two of the Seekers who had been training in the yard were working at a large bench. Relieved that the interview was both brief and concluded, he paid little attention to their activity, and headed for the main road. A gust of wind swirled dust and dead grass into the air and a sheet of parchment tumbled passed him, catching on a stone and continued to flap. Kessler picked it up, realizing that the Seekers were printing flyers. He turned it over in his hand, about to return it to them.

**WANTED**

Kessler Hawke

a.k.a

“The Champion of Kirkwall”

 **Description:** 6’2 Male, 170 lbs

 Dark Hair

Last seen with beard and long hair

 **Age:** Mid-20s

May be accompanied by Mabari hound

Attention: **Do not approach**

Considered to be an armed and dangerous malificar

**Reward 100 gold sovereigns returned ALIVE**

By Order of the Seekers

On behalf of Her Holiness the Divine Justinia V

 

He looked up from the poster and saw one of the Seekers running toward him.

He held out the flyer to him. “I believe this belongs to you.”

“Many thanks, Ser. Renner only gave us ten sheets, we can’t have them running away on us.”

“Indeed.”

Kessler bowed politely and turned around and walked back to Nessum, but in his mind, he was running. 


	9. Nuraya

The lanterns shone brightly, illuminating the gates to the palace when Nuraya and Ser Palmyre arrived in the middle of the night. Tandyr’s hooves clopped on the cobblestone as she reined him in, taking a deep breath to prepare for her entrance. It was never a simple matter to just walk in, and for a moment, she wavered whether she wanted to walk back into her old life. Alot hand changed, both for her and for Alistair, but the memories from the Blight rushed back, fresh as if they had happened yesterday. She had made the trip between Dungarven and Denerim many times before, but this particular journey felt different. She could not shake the feeling that everything would change as a result, and when those feelings nagged her, her first instinct was to turn around and run all the way home. Despite being open to Fiona’s plan to free the mages, her years in Dungarven had been good to her. For the first time in her life she felt as if she belonged somewhere, and people had come to accept her for who she was and what she did.  Folk in her village had no use for titles and honours, which suited Nuraya just fine. If the King had not written, would she have left? Nuraya knew the answer and felt ashamed. 

There was also some anxiety associated with seeing Alistair with his wife. She had not seen either of them since leaving Amaranthine and realized that she had spent time with Alistair and with Telari, but never both at the same time. True, she plotted to see them together. How naïve she was to think that she would never have to experience the result of her efforts.

Ser Palmyre dismounted and commanded the gatekeeper to grant them passage. Travelling with him was nothing like travelling throughout Ferelden with her Blight companions. With a nasally and pretentious accent, he spoke at length of his connections to the Crown and other prominent Fereldan nobles. On the first night of their journey, they found shelter at an inn in South Reach. Resting her elbow on the dinner table and a fist to prop up her head, she dozed off as Ser Palmyre explained how Arl Wulff’s sister’s cousin invited him to meet his daughter, whom it was rumoured was resisting an arranged marriage between Bann Alfstanna’s uncle’s son. The rest of their journey went much the same way, and with each passing moment, she grew to loathe the pouty lips that never seemed to tire from bragging. As the guards opened the massive wrought-iron gates, she gladly bid him goodbye.

After she dismounted and stretched her sore muscles, servants surrounded her, awaiting their commands. A stable boy took Tandyr, while the porter collected her meagre belongings. The Seneschal, a tall humourless man, quickly arrived on scene, bidding her welcome. Obviously, King Alistair had ensured that she was to be received as a guest of honour and his Seneschal was there to see to it. While she appreciated the gesture, she would have preferred using a lesser known entrance and fewer servants.

“His Majesty welcomes the former Warden-Commander at this late hour. He was concerned that you may have met trouble on the road. I am Seneschal Beric and on behalf of his Majesty King Alistair Therin and her Highness Queen Telari, I welcome you to Denerim.” He tipped his head politely, but she got the sense that he was not as welcoming as his words seemed to suggest. 

The Seneschal walked alongside Nuraya to the palace’s front entrance in an efficient manner, eyeing her, as if to carefully assess her state of presentation. She noticed his nostrils flare in disapproval. Most noted guests, Nuraya assumed, took time to clean up and arrive at a descent hour. She stank of horse and was splattered in mud, which she felt was appropriate given she had just dismounted after a long day of travel. Upon their approach, two guards opened the massive double doors, the feathers in their helmets blowing lightly in the wind. She quickly checked for the presence of the herald, hoping that a trumpet would not blast her late arrival and was pleased that the King had not required his duty on this occasion.

“My travel was uneventful, Seneschal Beric. I required time to hand over my healing practice to the Chantry.” While she was quite sure that Beric would not disturb the King at this late hour, she hoped that he would pass the message, just to let Alistair know the degree of her inconvenience. He pursed his lips and nodded slowly, as if surprised that she had an answer to his question.

The entryway was a gallery illuminated with massive chandeliers of iron and candle. Nuraya had forgotten the scale of the palace and admired the luxurious fabrics that draped the windows, the colossal and expertly woven tapestries covering the stone walls and patterned carpets that ran to the grand staircase. A line of servants awaited her at the foot of the stair. They curtsied and bowed when she stood in front of them.

“His Majesty has provided you with a retinue, Warden-Commander.” Now that she no longer bore titles, the Seneschal reverted to her last. He rubbed his hands together slowly, quickly inspecting the servants.

“If it does not offend you, please call me Nuraya.”

“As it please you, Nuraya.” The Seneschal slightly faltered on her name, as if it took him great effort to overcome her lack of formality. 

“Clodagh and Mol are to be your hand-servants…” Each immaculately dressed maid curtsied deeply.

“…Ser Desmond, your personal guard. Call upon him when you desire to leave the palace grounds to travel throughout the city.” Reverently, the guard crossed his arms at his chest and bowed.

“And this is Iain, your squire.” The dark haired boy, with a freckled nose, removed his hat and bowed deeply, trying to contain a smile. His hair was gnarled on one side of his head, evidence that everyone had been roused from bed as soon as she had arrived in the city.

“You have already met Toby your stableboy. Ladies, please settle in Miss Nuraya to her suite and see that she has everything she needs.” The ladies curtsied again.

Seneschal Beric bowed. “His Majesty wishes to breakfast with you in the morning and afterwards we will shall meet with the Council.”

Nuraya nodded and without another word or condescending glance, Seneschal Beric disappeared into a side door. Oh how she hated dealing with servants and wanted nothing more than to dismiss them. However, she supposed that they had been hand selected by the Queen, and to excuse them would bring great shame upon them, and great offense to Telari.  

“Ser Desmond and young Iain, you are dismissed for the night.” She remembered the letter she promised to Ser Ruskin. “Iain, if you could meet me before breakfast at my quarters, I will have an errand for you.”  Iain nodded with a wide smile. Nuraya turned to her maids. “Ladies, lead the way, as I have forgotten the layout of the palace.”

After climbing the grand staircase and passing through long corridors, sitting rooms and a library, they arrived at the guest wing. As Mol opened to the door to her room, she turned to Nuraya.

“M’Lady, Arl Teagan and Arlessa Kaitlyn arrived at their estate yesterday. They asked me to bid you welcome upon your arrival. They look forward to seeing you at breakfast.”

“Who else will join us?” Nuraya asked.

“Only His Majesty and the Queen as well as Lord and Lady Guerrin.” Breakfast, she thought, was quickly sizing up to be a political council. At least the Teagan and Eamon would make her first meeting with Alistair in five years seen less awkward.

 She strolled into the luxurious guestroom, a room that was three times the size of her apartment and clinic put together. The porter followed them inside and set her bags near the bed and quietly took his leave without a word.

“Do you know of the reason for the Arl of Redcliffe’s arrival?”

As she untied the drawstring of her hooded cape, Clodagh quickly stepped behind to offer her assistance. Nuraya decided not to remove her riding boots, for fear that each of the servants would rush forth and complete the task on her behalf.

“No, m’lady. Shall I inquire with the Seneschal on your behalf?” Mol started turning down the bed and smoothing the pillows. Clodagh tended the fire and then poured a large pot of boiling water in ceramic basin for washing.

“Please, do not trouble him. I will see them at breakfast and find out then. Ladies, your assistance has been appreciated. Come wake me in the morning so that I have time to prepare.” Both servants finished their task at hand, curtsied as they disappeared into the dark hallway.

Nuraya took a deep breath and flopped on the feather mattress. She grinned. This was one indulgence worth travelling for. She pulled off her boots and kicked them on the floor. Her mind was still too busy for sleep. As she looked about the room, a piece of armour on the stand caught her attention. Jumping out of bed, she padded over to inspect it more closely. A breastplate that had not yet experienced battle hung on the pegs, almost calling out to be tried on. The workmanship was clearly Master Wades. She touched the lustrous scale—it was crafted from the hide of the Archdemon. A year of mysterious dreams, a harrowing battle and she still could not escape its clutches. She rued the loss of her sword and thought it would pair nicely with the armour. As soon as she became lost in admiration, she stepped back, crossed her arms and hoped beyond hope that Alistair would not send her on a task requiring a full set of armour.

After she washed and prepared for bed, she curled into her feathered nest. The next time her eyes opened, she heard the sound of Clodagh’s soft voice encouraging her wake. Rubbing her face and scratching her scalp, she sat up and blinked the sleep out of her eyes.

“Good morning m’lady.” Clodagh curtsied again. “Do you require assistance preparing yourself for breakfast with His Majesty?”

Nuraya sat at the edge of the bed stretching her toes. She thought on the offer for a moment. “No thank you. But please come for me when it’s time to leave, I’ll need a guide to get me there.” Nuraya remembered the formality of Alistair’s coronation. It seemed that every day at the palace was a ritualistic exercise in decorum. She wondered how Alistair was able to forgive her for getting the nobles to recognize that he was Maric’s legitimate heir.

“As you desire M’lady.” Nuraya heard the door quietly shut again.

She spent most of her time fussing with her hair. It had become quite unwieldy and she wondered if the northern air did not agree with it. She also found a stray grey hair and plucked it out. After she had killed the Archdemon, a white chunk had developed on the left side of her forehead. Besides a shoulder that ached during cold autumn rains, it was the only outward symbol of her battle. Her father used to joke with her that the colour decided to escape the roof of Fort Drakon and never managed to find its way home. She had become self-conscious of it and often reminded her of the Warden’s curse and her calling.  Always distracting herself from thinking too long on the effect of the taint, she continued pulling her fingers through her dark locks.  _If Leliana were here, she might be able to do something with this bird’s nest_. Once she finished arranging her familiar braid, she stuck her tongue at herself in the mirror and decided that she had wasted enough time.

She noticed that Clodagh had unpacked and put her clothes neatly in a wardrobe. Also hanging were a number of gowns. Nuraya rolled her eyes and pulled out her tunic and breeches, along with a sleeveless cloak with a hood. Without Wynne and Leliana, her wardrobe had become increasingly plain and practical. She heard their gentle nagging and encouragement, suggesting she should present herself accordingly. _If the King and Queen lose their appetite over the plainness of my dress, well, then that is their problem._

At a writing desk the size of a banquet table, she wrote three letters. The first, she addressed to Revered Mother Lindys and requested that she send Ser Ruskin to Denerim as her _chaperone_ and a second to Ser Ruskin asking the same. She did not use the same formality and feigned sincerity with the templar; he would be greatly anticipating the invitation. Since she was sending a messenger back to Denerim, she decided to send off a quick note to her father describing her journey and first night in the City. That would put him at ease for a while. She wished she could send Tulia a morsel of gossip to spread at the Winking Moon, but had nothing worth telling and instead wished her and her husband well. Nuraya chuckled to herself, knowing that Tulia would be able to create a story out of it.

With an ignited finger, she melted a small stick of red wax, and stuck her seal into the shiny pool. Through his business dealings, her father found a jeweler to craft a ring inscribed with the fire rune _kalle_ , as well as weaving her initials into the design. Some of the more outlying families in the area often preferred sending letters asking her medical advice, so she decided she needed a professional touch. When she had finished, she absentmindedly rubbed the wax out of the ring, and stared out the window.

Clodagh came to collect her shortly after, while Iain waited dutifully at her door. She passed him the letters with her instructions and followed Clodagh’s brisk pace. Her stomach was in knots and she was not sure how she would be able to eat. The dining area was at the opposite end of the palace and Nuraya believed she walked the same distance as it took her to get from her clinic to the Winking Moon.

The maid stopped in front of a set of double doors, curtsied and wished her a good morning while the waiting server bowed, opened both doors and invited Nuraya in. She was expecting to walk into a cavernous dining hall with a table as long as the road running through Dungarven. Instead, she stepped into a sunny nook, with a round table at the centre. Bay windows looked out upon the palace gardens and the room was full of plants from every region in Thedas. Andraste’s Grace bloomed nearest the hearth, a red and yellow vine from Pol Vollen climbed the window and a broad leafed Nevarran _drachepalme_ completely took over the corner of the room.

“Nuraya Amell of Dungarven, Champion of Redcliffe, Hero of Ferelden, Amaranthine’s Last Hope and Former Commander of the Grey.”

Nuraya stood behind the servant and grimaced slightly as he went through her titles. She noticed that Alistair was watching her and grinning, seated nearest the window in a dark green doublet trimmed in gold. Feeling very self-conscious, she tried her best for an empty expression. Telari, dressed in plum velvet with her chestnut hair elegantly pinned, smiled excitedly. Also at the table were Lady Isolde, Lord Eamon, Arl Teagan and his new wife Kaitlyn. Nuraya’s face burned and she wanted to turn around and ride all the way back to Dungarven. Managing to put one foot in front of the other, she followed the servant to her place nearest Telari and Alistair.

As her chair was being pushed in, Telari turned to her servant and called for tea. “It’s been too long Nuraya. We are so glad to finally have you here in Denerim.”

The rest of the table took turns in greeting her as she smoothed her napkin on her lap.

“Senechal Beric tells me that the Chantry took over your practice. I hope that there is no trouble in Dungarven.” Alistair asked. His face had changed slightly, the angles were more pronounced and his hair was shorter. He also sported a beard.  When she looked at him, she realized that he no longer had the same effect on her, and felt greatly relieved.  

Nuraya flicked her hand in a carefree manner. “No troubles at all, your Majesty.” She paused for a second to continue. She did not want to sound completely uncivilized, but not being able to say _Alistair_ seemed so foreign and awkward.  “The Chantry offered Sister Audrey to keep the clinic running in my absence.”

“Please Nuraya. We left formality at the door this morning. And you came to Denerim on Tandyr, I hope.” Telari asked. Alistair looked over at her, with an expression that informed Nuraya that genuine feelings had developed between them. She was glad. Arranged marriages always had the potential for disaster and she was happy that the sorrow of their parting had not turned him bitter.

“Why of course. Who else would I trust to get me here in one piece?”

“Then it is settled, we shall go riding some afternoon. It has been a fine spring and I have a yearling that I’d like to race against Tandy. ” As the waiter placed a plate in front of the Queen, she leaned toward her husband, affectionately stroking his arm. Alistair had already started buttering his bread and ate it with a sizeable wedge of cheese.

“I’d love to, Telari. Once the arrangements have been made, let me know.”

Throughout breakfast, she listened to their casual breakfast chatter. Lord Eamon spoke of recent trade negotiations with Rivain and Teagan recounted a rash of burglaries troubling Redcliffe. No mention was made about the urgency of her summons. Was this just a ruse to get her to Denerim? She would not put it past both Alistair and Telari. They both knew that Nuraya was uncomfortable being at court.

During a pause in the conversation, Nuraya looked to Teagan and Kaitlyn.

“Might I offer my congratulations in person to the both of you. I apologize that I was unable to attend your wedding last summer.” Had it not been for Mrs. Goss and the twins that decided to arrive earlier than anticipated, she would have attended. Nuraya had hoped that after six children, the birth would have been quick. However, each Goss twin took their time and arrived plump and squalling. As a wedding present, her father forged Teagan a new sword, a two-handed compliment to the Green Blade, that Teagan christened Crimsonbringer, in honour of his new Arling.

“My thanks,” Teagan replied, flashing his wife an adoring look. “Word travels about your clinic. Many in Redcliffe have requested a permanent healer in the village. Of course the Chantry will only offer the services of their sisters, but everyone knows that it is not quite the same thing.”

Isolde was unusually quiet and seemed rather sullen in the sunny breakfast nook. When it became apparent that something deeply troubled her, Alistair spoke up.

“Lady Isolde, are you well? I am sure Nuraya could help, if you are ill.” He looked over to Nuraya. She was glad that he was now in a position that outranked Isolde and had never forgot that it was at Isolde’s insistence that Alistair was sent to the Chantry. Nuraya nodded in agreement to Alistair’s proposition.

“We did not want to trouble you on this happy occasion, Majesty.” Eamon said. He tossed his napkin onto his plate and leaned on his elbows, rubbing his hands together.

“Please Eamon, speak your mind.” Telari said.

“We just received word this morning that Connor has gone missing from Kinloch Hold.”

Nuraya heard someone’s cutlery clank on a plate and then felt everyone’s eyes turn to her. She continued to cut her ham.

“Gone missing? What do you mean?” Telari asked.

“Irving is claiming that he had escaped while he was being disciplined.” Eamon replied. “We just received word yesterday. He’s been on the run for at least a week. Irving spoke to some of the other apprentices and they heard him talking about leaving Ferelden.”

Isolde covered her eyes with her hand to hide her tears.

“Is the Chantry investigating?” Alistair inquired. Nuraya was glad that he had asked. A question such as that from her would have given a distinctly negative impression.

“The Knight-Commander sent a unit to find him the day they sent word to us. They will first investigate Redcliffe, since it is his childhood home. Gregoire says it is common for escaped Apostates to return to their hometown,” said Eamon.

“Apostate, Eamon! He is only just a boy!” Isolde said, her tone very reminiscent of Nuraya’s first meeting with the Arlessa of Redcliffe.

“I will contact the Redcliffe guard immediately brother, to keep an eye out for him. We’ll try and keep the Chantry at arms-length.” Teagan said, turning to speak with his brother. He pushed his plate away from him.

While Nuraya should have appreciated this comment, she could not help but think that most mages were not as lucky to have an influential uncle to play politics on their behalf.

Alistair leaned forward. “Nuraya, we all know you have…contacts. Have you heard anything?”

Eyes wide in astonishment, she swallowed a hearty serving of roasted potato and sat back. “His Majesty seems to think I’ve been very busy in Dungarven working my underground connections instead of healing the sick and injured. I assure you that this is the first I’ve heard about Connor since I visited Redcliffe. That was before the Blight.”

Isolde looked at Nuraya, her eyes glassy and pleading. “Please Nuraya. If you know anything, please tell us. We promise to never speak of your involvement.”

“My lady, I promise I withhold no information.” She wanted to add that she would be contacting the Mage’s Collective in a matter of days, and fully intended on putting out word. She kept it to herself, for fear of undermining what little trust seemed to linger at the breakfast table. Lady Isolde narrowed her eyes, as if to say _liar_. Nuraya was not about to beg to be believed.

“Oh Eamon, what shall we do? Your Majesty, Your Highness. Please pardon me. I am in need of some fresh air.” She abruptly stood from the table and marched out the door. Eamon followed, but turned to the table and politely bowed.

“I apologize for bringing such troubles to your breakfast, Your Majesty, Your Highness. Nuraya, please take no offense. Clearly Isolde is quite distraught.”

Nuraya nodded, adding, “If I hear of any news, I shall bring it to you directly. You have my word.”

Eamon grinned weakly and left in search of his wife. Nuraya turned to the table and wanted to say… _See!_ _If mages weren’t kept as prisoners, this would not be a problem. And don’t think you are the only family to know these troubles_. 

Teagan and Kaitlyn stood up. “Begging your pardon, we will leave you three to catch up.” Teagan bowed his head to Nuraya. “It is a delight to see you again, Nuraya. And please, don’t take Lady Isolde’s outburst as a personal affront. We all know she has quite the flair for drama.  I’ve promised my lovely wife that I would take her to the market district this morning.” Kaitlyn smiled and then curtsied to the King and Queen before leaving with her husband.

Nuraya sighed out loud when the door shut. “I must have a reputation that trouble always follows me.” She grinned and continued eating. Drama over mages was a situation she was fully accustomed to and had no effect upon her appetite.

“Nuraya, are you sure you know nothing of Connor’s escape?” Alistair asked.

“I might be one to scheme, but I am no liar. I fear for him. He is not safe—and I wish I did know where he was, in fact I wish I was hiding him. But alas, I’m not.” She propped her elbows on the table and looked at Alistair. He nodded, finally assured by her answer. Dungarven seemed a world away and she missed it desperately. If she were at home, she would be wandering in her garden with a hot cup of tea, or sitting in the smithy watching Geordie at the forge. She loved to stare at the red hot steel, burning bright as the sun, sparkling as Geordie’s hammer landed. Sitting near the sweltering furnace was far more appealing that having Fereldan nobles question her honesty.

Getting up from the table, she wandered to the window and looked out at the gardens. Groomed and stretching far into the distance, she noticed the roses were starting to bud and the tulips were almost ready to shed their petals. All dewy and glistening, they sparkled in the early morning light. At the far end, a gardener was hoeing amongst the forget-me-nots and reminded her that she had forgotten to delegate the care for her own garden. Surely, her father would not neglect it. 

With her hands behind her back, she turned and asked, “So are you going to tell me why you have brought me here?”

“Come with me, Nuraya. I want to show you something.” Telari rose from the table and offered her husband a quick kiss on his temple.

She pushed open the door and motioned for Nuraya to follow. They made their way to their private residence. In a comfortable sitting room, with a wall of windows and balconies, she offered Nuraya a seat in front of a massive mantle, carved with mabari hounds keeping vigil on either side. Telari disappeared into a door off to the side.

As she waited, she looked at the portrait of Maric hanging over the fireplace, young and heroic. To the right, were images of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland. Her brother Fergus was the Teryn of Highever and often kept her father and Geordie busy with orders for new weaponry for the Highever guard. 

When the Queen returned, an energetic little boy dashed into the room ahead of her. Nuraya brightened, smiling widely. _Was this what the fuss was over? They brought me all the way here to meet their son?_ He looked just like Alistair, even down to the way his hair was combed off his forehead. But instead of sandy hair and hazel eyes, he inherited his mother’s chestnut colouring and blue eyes. Telari sat beside Nuraya, trying to pull him close, but he wiggled from her arms.

“Bran, my sweet, please come say hello to Miss Nuraya.” He turned with mischievous eyes, grinned and turned to the fireplace.

“On! Mama!” With a fat finger he pointed to the cold ashes.

“No sweetie. We do not light fires in the spring.”

Nuraya got on the floor with Bran. At his level, she offered her hand. He took it and shook his plump little arm vigorously.

“I’m Nuraya. Nice to meet you.”

“Naya…” he muttered. He turned back to the fireplace and tugged on her sleeve. “On Naya! Fiya ON!” Nuraya chuckled. For a brief moment, Nuraya wanted to conjure a small flame in her palm and give the little prince a bit of a show, except she was unsure whether his parents would approve. Bran sat in front of the fire with a grunt. He scowled into the cold hearth, his bottom lip pulled to a pout.

“He sure is a determined little fellow.” Nuraya turned to Telari, who looked both enamoured and exasperated.

“That would be an understatement.”

On his knees, Bran shuffled over to the ashes, pointing. “ON mama”

“No sweetling. No ‘on’ today.” Bran turned and gave his mother a look of pure defiance.

He pointed inside the fireplace again and a stream of fire shot from his fingertips and landed in the fireplace, scattering the ashes. Anything combustible immediately ignited. Bran clapped and giggled, turning around looking quite accomplished.

“FIYA ON MAMA!” He returned to gazing into the fire and continued to clap. His face reflected the glow of the fire, his wide eyes dancing in delight.

Nuraya could hardly believe what she had just witnessed. She looked at Telari in complete and utter amazement.

Alistair, who must have arrived in time to see Bran’s demonstration, leaned on the back of the sofa. “Now do you know why we called you to Denerim?”


	10. Connor

Drunk on too much lyrium and cheap wine, Connor stared at the knife in his hand, preparing to cut his palm. Yaleen insisted he kneel before the fire for his blood magic initiation, and he started to sink into the soft ground, staining the front of his robe with a new layer of grime. Before he started, she corrected his posture and indicated that his knife arm was too slack; her instructions only served to rile his nerves. Concentrating on the blade, and imagining the pain it would inflict, he realized her guidance had abruptly come to an end. Her mind was no longer with them. His determination fell by the wayside as he watched her sitting cross-legged and swaying in a trance. The chant she uttered made no sense—a scattering of cries and vowels punctuated by humming mumbles. Revik sipped the wine, his eyes dancing between the two of them, glazed and distant. Focusing again, Connor raised the knife to make the first cut, and hesitated a second time. Gathering up his nerve, he tightened his grip on the handle, hoping to quit shaking. As soon as he worried about cutting off a finger, he dropped his pose and sat down on the back of his calves and sighed loudly.

“Happens to all the Chantry mages.” Revik said, drinking deeply. Yaleen’s shoulders twitched and she dropped her head, allowing her frizzy mane to flop in front of her. She held her arms out to her side, sidewinding them like two striking snakes.

Connor watched her, twirling his knife. “What’s she doing?” He didn’t think that blood magic involved this ridiculous catatonia. He wanted no part of it if it involved flopping around like a dying fish. 

“She goes places. Faraway places. She don’t tell me where or how. But, as you can see, there she goes.” He held out the wineskin and offered it to Connor. “First time is always the toughest, boy. Just get over yourself. The cut only stings for a little bit.”

For the past two nights they had hiked through the forest bordering the coastlands. The previous night, cool and moonlit, they hiked to the top of a high ridge. Revik had pointed across the valley toward a tower. It was so far away that Connor could barely make out a darkened flag.

“Highever. Castle Cousland. If we keep up our pace we should be to Denerim in two nights.” Revik had told him. Hope had swelled in Connor that they were nearly there. The relentless pace through the forest, through shadow and past strange noises had become habit. As one foot crunched the dried leaves, stepping in front of the other, he always anticipated the next stop, the next campfire and the moment he could set down the heavy pack and silence the unrelenting growling in his belly. The Circle tower had become a bad memory. He had forgotten about classes and schedules. Fat Markus and Minna meant nothing to him anymore. And unfortunately, he had forgotten how the sun felt on his cheeks. His belly forgot what it was like to feel full. He was a night child, a forest walker, a restless Wight.

As they had hiked, Yaleen tutored him on the art of blood magic. The more she informed him, the less he feared the implications. In the deep of the forest, it was survival, not the Chantry that mattered most. Even though he could heal and transform into a bird, he was determined to protect himself and outlast the hungry night creatures and templars. In the early dawn hours, she had used the tip of her staff to draw the conjuration runes into the dirt. They were simple enough, however, the chants were trickier. His tongue, thick and clumsy, tripped over the awkward syllables. As they marched, weaving through pine, oak and ash, he repeated them over and over again as Yaleen corrected him. She told him how their sounds tore the Veil and channeled the beings that lie just beyond. She never used the term _demon_. She had told Connor that Fade beings possessed great power and blood was the river they used to travel into this world. Blood connected all beings of this world to the Old Ones, the beings that existed before time.

Connor drank deeply, his tongue now accustomed to the sour wine. It warmed his throat, all the way down to his belly. His childhood fears, the memories of being trapped in the Fade, being under the control of the demon continued to haunt him. Although he had no specific memory, he knew that his possession unleashed a great army of undead onto Redcliffe. He would always harbour tremendous shame about that, even though, in all honesty he didn’t know better at the time. How many deaths was he responsible for? No wonder his parents sent him to the Tower without complaint; they must have been ashamed as well. This prevented him from making the first cut.

“What if I meet a demon that is too powerful for me to control?” After he handed Revik back the wine, he scratched his arms, noticing how dirty and scabby he had become. He toyed with the dagger again, recalling the rage that filled him when he was possessed. He was thankful he didn’t hurt his parents, and grateful that Nuraya was able to sever his connection and repair the Veil.

“Stop thinking about demons. You’re too stuck on that. The Chantry has hold of your mind. Let that go first. If all you thinks abouts is demons, demons is whats you meet.” Revik’s greasy hair was shining as brightly as his eyes in front of the fire. Yaleen sighed and fell backwards, her hands recoiled and twitched. Revik used his foot to push her away from the fire. “Woman, you gots to be more careful.”

“I don’t get it. I thought blood magic was the only way to control demons in the Fade.”

Revik looked to his side, then leaned over and picked a dandelion flower.  “What have I gots here, laddie?”

“A flower?” Connor didn’t understand the intent of Revik’s question. Mindlessly, he carved the ground in front of him with his knife, creating scrolling designs and swiped his canvas clean to work a new pattern. 

“I know it’s a maker-forsaken flower, laddie. What kinds is it? Ain’t you learned this in the Tower? Do they only fill your head with that Chant of Light garbage?” He twirled the yellow flower between his fingers.

“It’s a dandelion. A common weed. Some use it to make wine from the blossoms. Healers can use it to treat boils,” Connor said sharply.

“Aye. A weed. What’s a weed laddie?”

“An invasive plant.” Connor peered through his shaggy bangs, now insulted at this stupid line of questioning. What connection could there be between blood magic and basic gardening?

“A weed is only a weed when it grows where nobody wants it. Otherwise, it’s just another pretty flower. See!” Revik pointed to a dandelion growing just out of his reach. “See! There is another. I don’t sees it invading. There it grows, minding its own business. It only becomes a weed when it gets in the way eh, when someone don’t gives it permission to grow. It’s only a weed when the farmer says so.”

Connor leaned back on his hands, stretching his toes to the fire. He looked upwards in thought, noticing dark clouds gathering overhead. He guessed he would learn the discomfort of trying to sleep in the pouring rain. Meanwhile, Yaleen had grown quiet. Revik poked her with his staff. She groaned and rolled away from him.

“So you're telling me that they are demons only because the Chantry says so? If they aren't demons, what are they?”

“They is what they is. You have to tell them how to appear to the world. That’s blood magic laddie. To be honest, I could conjure a maiden with thick hair and plump tits, but that doesn’t do much to put the fear in the templars.  There ain’t no fun in killing a horny templar. Feels too much pity for ‘em…all that training…and the poor slobs can’t experience the pleasure of having a tittie in each hand. I prefers to kills them when I sees them wets their pants. Once, I conjured a rage demon and got hard as a pike watching the young templar shit himself in his armour. Felt better than the kill to be honest.” He cackled loudly and stood up, disappearing into the wood. When he returned, he poured a bladder of water over the fire. It hissed and cracked, releasing dark plumes of smoke that twisted through the branches and up into the early dawn light. Connor stood and helped him kick sand and dirt and carefully spread out the charred logs.

“Gets some rest, lad.” He grimaced as he looked upward at the grew clouds settling overhead. “T’will be a couple rough days of travel. It tooks me three weeks to make the first cut. Trys not to think abouts it too much. Your first time is the best of all though. Don’t be too afraid to let it happen.” He pat Connor reassuringly on the back.

 Connor nestled under a pine. The needles poked him through his robes, but the damp smell had become familiar and comforting. The boughs would keep him dry for a while. He wedged his boots into the branches in hopes of keeping them dry longer. Having dry feet for a while might be the only comfort he’d have after sunset. As he curled into his bower, he watched Revik sharpen his hunting knife, while Yaleen slept peacefully at his side.

Lyrium still coursed through his veins and made him more alert. He lay on his back and spun the knife between his hands, thinking about what Revik had said about blood magic. _I can choose what I wish to bring through the Fade—it doesn’t have to be a demon._ Revik’s explanation started to make sense. Why would the Chantry teach him differently? Why bother telling mages about the benefits of blood magic? _It’s just one more way to control us…tell us what spells are off limits. They fill our heads with lies that blood magic only conjures demons. They lie to us so they have an excuse to hunt us down._ Connor held the knife over his palm, imagined the rune and started chanting under his breath. _Nothing is off-limits anymore._ With perfect articulation, he dug the blade deep into his palm. Before he could drop the knife, the spell effects were already being felt. Connor closed his eyes.

In the darkness, behind his eyelids, patterns swirled. At first, they were indistinct splotches of grey and white, emerging in and out of focus. The wound on his hand began to weep, a slow, warm trickling. He carefully followed Yaleen’s directions and put his palms together and held his thumbs to his lips to speak the final invocation into his blood:  _Dooaip mad, zacare ca od zamran! Odo ciecle qaa! Zorge lap zirdo hoath iaida._ ” From Yaleen, he had learned that it meant:“In the name of the Maker, move and therefore show yourself. Open the mysteries of your creation! Be friendly unto me, for I am the true worshipper of the highest.” The incantation did not mention demons, in fact it called upon the Maker. That made what he was about to do, seem all right. 

As the final syllable passed his lips, his vision intensified. Colours swirled, curled in upon themselves, until Connor was enveloped within a chrysanthemum of unfolding geometry. An explosion of colour he had never experienced, that he had no words to describe, uncoiled before him. Green tinted violet, crimson so intense that it glowed with gold, shining and reflective blue-silver and bronzed turquoise shimmered and swirled. His vision bloomed into the farthest, deepest edges of his consciousness, budding from the centre and moving continuously outward. The whole of the image was too much for his mind to process, and even as he focused on one petal, it transformed, grew larger and shifted.

As he reached an ecstatic peak, his joy, pain and profound awe rushed from his body and into the vision. He was the source of its energy, he was feeding it. Just as he could hardly bare this feeling, he heard a ringing, a crackling in his ears, like a fire set on wet wood, the sound of a waterfall, the hiss of a snake. A pin point of darkness at the very centre of the vision sucked him inward. He was squeezed into the heart of the flower.

He heard a _pop_ and emerged on the other side. He was elsewhere, beyond thought, outside of time, past life and beside death. He hovered in space, like a massive condor catching currents in a canyon. Soaring toward the sun, he raced away from the blue-green globe he now understood to be his corporeal home. Vast fuchsia and cerulean clouds floated over stars that outnumbered sugar from a spilled bowl. The pins of light passed by him at such a speed that he became wrapped inside a tangled tunnel of light and colour. In great waves he followed, with no frame of reference or sense of direction. Once his thoughts asked where the hurtling channel was taking him, he was somewhere else, somewhere outright strange, yet unmistakably familiar. They were here.

Orbs of light swirled around him. He held out his hand allowing one to hover in his palm. The softly illuminated light was sentient, old and had gathered wisdom from thousands of lifetimes. This he understood, with more certainty than he ever had experienced in the tower or on the run. As he stared and penetrated the light, the orbs pulsed in unison.

_How wonderful that you are here! So delighted to see you!_

He heard giggling, from all directions and the orbs jumped in and out of his body. He sensed their vibrations from the tips of his toes to the back of his throat.

_Welcome to the end of the beginning! You have arrived at the start of the finish!_

The closer he inspected the beings the more rapidly they changed before him. They opened like little trinket boxes decorated in precious gems; each box unlatched to reveal new compartments. As they continuously transformed, they grew and multiplied, and spawned new jeweled enigmas. He heard them sing, not with a mouth, but somehow their metamorphosis created the music. As they sang, they revealed new forms and shapes and new hidden passageways.

He held out his hand, noticing that every surface of this space was whirling and unfolding, birthing and dying, closing and opening, spinning and collapsing. He felt a pulling, a sense of urging.

 _We come to you, you come to us_. An ever-unfolding box, popped into his hand and Connor knew with the deepest of certainties that this was the invitation. A hand unfolded from the entity and reached into his. After that, he was falling, down, fast, feeling gravity pull him toward the earth, down into Ferelden, down into the base of the tree.

In the moment before his eyes popped open, he knew he had to call its form. They were always here with him, just beyond what he could see and hear. He must offer them shape and direct their purpose; this was their gift to him. In return, he offered them the privilege of experiencing time and simplicity once more. Just before his eyes opened he thought of a small creature, one that was soft, friendly and unthreatening.

He heard purring and felt softness nuzzle under his chin. His eyes blinked open, blinded by the intensity of the early dawn light and he wondered how long he had been gone. Revik was still sharpening his knife. A dark shadow, soft and warm, sat under the tree with him and licked a paw. Connor reached out to touch and test his senses, to reassure that the spell had not tricked him. Black fur flickered under his fingers and its purring intensified as he scratched a point between the shoulder blades. The cat looked at him with wide lyrium-blue eyes that blinked languidly. Connor smiled and gave it permission to leave. As quick as smoke, it was gone and Connor was exhausted. His palm stung. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

~0oOo0~

Connor awoke to the sound of voices. They weren’t Yaleen and Revik’s half-whispered mutterings; they were distinctly male. Connor peered through a pine bough and saw a flash of metal. He started to panic at the sight of armoured men. He cursed, fearing the templars had finally caught up with him. On his belly, he squirmed through the grass, over to Revik and tugged on his boot. Ducking his reflexive kick, he put his finger over his lips and pointed to the source of his concern. Revik grabbed his staff and roused Yaleen.

“Stay here, keep out of sight. We’ll deal with this.”

Connor nodded and returned under the pine. He coursed his fingers through his shaggy blonde hair, pulled out the stray pine needles and realized that he was wet. It had rained sometime during the day. He watched Revik and Yaleen creep behind the thick trunks, quietly watching. He had yet to see the armour’s sigil. It could be a small muster of guard, even the Grey Wardens. Connor had no idea how a phylactery worked. Was it powerful enough to find him in the woods between Highever and Denerim?

He saw Revik nudge Yaleen and crept forward. She took a stance, and raised her arms above her head. A glint of silver flashed in her hand. Revik held his staff in front of him, and with a flourishing twirl, fired an eruption of flame. At the same time, Yaleen slashed her palm and called a Shade, much larger than the one she had conjured for Connor’s amusement. _It must be templars_ , he thought. The men started shouting and their armour clanged closer. He craned his neck to get a better look, to see how many Yaleen and Revik had to confront and heard the terrifying screams of a dying man. Connor ran ahead and ducked behind another tree. He trembled in fear and his stomach turned inside out. 

Yaleen and Revik managed to take on three templars, their Shade still smouldering and attacking. Revik launched fire as Yaleen conjured ice. Connor remembered how Nuraya used to travel in the company of warriors and rogues and wished that they had some armed allies as well. Connor watched in horror as a templar struck Yaleen down and plunged his sword deep into her chest.

Stifling his urge to scream, his hands shook in fury, his knuckles white. Grabbing his knife, he opened the fresh wound on his palm and conjured the spell. The magnificent journey that he had just experienced swept by him as quick as the wind. He had no time to enjoy its mysteries. At the moment of invitation, he called upon a rage demon, taking it by its papery grey skin and obsidian claws and commanded it to join him. It complied.

In a blink, Connor sent the demon to kill. Sensing his connection to it, feeling untouchable and safe, he ran through the forest in pursuit. When he caught up with his companions, a templar turned in surprise, but before he could calculate a move, the demon attacked him. With his crooked and gnarled claw, it swung at the templar’s head, only managing to knock off his helmet.

Connor saw his face. It was Ser Guthrie. He had been stationed at the Circle and one of the guards that dragged him into the Quiet Room. As much as Connor despised him, he had known him since he was eight. Connor stopped in his tracks. The demon must have sensed his hesitation and circled, waiting to pounce. Ser Guthrie swung his blade but the demon was quick and agile. Connor’s heart pounded and he dripped with sweat, but he managed to break free of his reservations. If he did not act now, he would be dragged back to the Circle and made Tranquil.

“Kill him!” Connor commanded.

The demon recoiled and then pounced, lashing out with fire and claw, knocking the templar to the ground. Before Ser Guthrie could recover, Revik was on him with his knife, slitting his throat. While Revik was occupied, Connor sent the demon to confront the surviving templar hoping he did not have to look into another familiar face again. He felt ill.

Revik used a paralysis spell. Connor didn’t wait to witness this templar’s death and bolted toward Yaleen. At the same time, he released the demon and sent it back from whence it came.

Yaleen’s breathing was ragged and shallow. Connor tried the only magic he knew well. He held his hands over her wounds and inhaled, trying to draw in the injury and stop the bleeding. He looked down at her pale face, blood trickled from her nose and from the corner of her mouth.

“I can do this Yaleen, hang on.” Connor said hopefully. Her bleeding could not be staunched. He placed his hand around the weapon and coursed his power through his hands. Her blood seeped between his fingers and over the tops of his hands. He tried desperately to pull her grave and mortal wounds into him. Her breathing slowed and she turned as pale as the moon. His efforts only managed to give him an intense headache but he continued to draw her injuries into his mind. He could not get her flesh to regenerate; he was not strong enough. His vision blurred and used his shoulder to wipe his tears, not moving his hands from around the embedded blade.

“Let me go.” She rasped, pulling her mouth into a crooked smile.

Revik pushed Connor aside. “Save your energy. She is gone.” He kneeled down and coursed his fingers through her hair. “Good-bye my love. I‘ll meet you across the Veil.” He turned the blade and she took her last breath.

Revik’s face was expressionless, but his eyes were full of tears. Connor knew they had been fighting for survival together since they were his age. Revik was left alone in this world, just like Connor.

“We’ve gots to get moving.” He said as he searched the bodies and pocketing what coin they carried. Connor removed Ser Guthrie’s one-handed sword and strapped the scabbard around his waist. He was not going to face another templar unarmed. He removed a ring from his hand, hoping he would be able to trade it when he arrived in the city.

Revik stripped each of the templars and eventually yanked a large medallion from one. He threw it to the ground and set it afire. Connor ran to his side.

“Your phylactery. The Tower will have more blood. But now they have less.” He said coldly and Connor knew that it was his fault that Yaleen was done. He had brought them here.

With his forearm, he wiped his eyes and followed Revik deep into the wood, his hands still sticky with Yaleen’s blood. 


	11. Saunière

Berenger Saunière’s arms ached to the point of shaking. The tendons in his wrist were weak and he feared his sword would soon fly from his hand the next time he collided blades. Facing death was not as terrifying as he imagined; calmness washed over him like the salty surf rolling onto a rocky shore. Trapped deep inside the ruin hidden in Tylus Canyon, he was defending himself against two impish genlock rogues and one particularly ugly hurlock, with a mouth of decayed teeth and a face that would compel a mother to smother it with a pillow. His life had been in danger before and a fair share of malificars had attacked him when he was younger, but killing apostates was relatively simple. Once he robbed them of their ability cast magic, the rest was nothing more than a flourish and a jab. This time however, with age and an obvious lack of allies, he was acutely aware that he was fighting his last battle. Pride bubbled to the surface as he thought about how others would remember him—a noble son from Ghislain, former templar, eminent Professor of Ancient Andrastian theology—who died valiantly in a failed rescue effort. That did not sound so bad. He wished he could rectify the “failed rescue effort” aspect of his final stand, but he could hardly regret that. No matter how many times he swung his sword, he could not reduce the Darkspawn’s numbers or even weaken them sufficiently to gain ground.

Besides regret, there was guilt.  He managed to drag Tassilo into this mess, never doubting that his devoted assistant would follow him to the Void, and here they were, right on the edge. Tassilo had run out of arrows and resorted to brandishing his double daggers, dodging blows and managing rather well on his own. Saunière wanted to shout out a meaningful farewell, but did not wish to disturb his assistant's concentration. 

Saunière pommeled the hurlock in the head, tired of its mocking snarls and foul breath, hoping to knock out a crooked fang that protruded most annoyingly from its upper jaw. It was not a critical blow, nothing more than a push, and he missed the tooth, but it gave himself an extra moment of existence. With a thud, it fell at his feet with an arrow lodged in the back of its skull. As the genlocks spun around to examine this new threat, the professor noticed that the fletching was not Tassilo’s, nor was it friendly fire. Tassilo used only the whitest of goose feathers, while Darkspawn balanced their arrows with the feathers from an oily carrion feeder, no doubt corrupted from the taint. The arrow embedded in the dead hurlock had mottled copper and black fletching. If Saunière had more time, he would have taken the time to study and identify the feather, and quickly guessed it was most likely from a hawk.

A female voice echoed through the hall. “Take cover gentlemen!”

Raising her sylvain-wood staff, the strange woman gathered a burning vortex and sent a burning wave to every corner of the chamber. Her fox fur and feather-trimmed cloak spread behind her, unscathed by the flame. Without questioning this opportune guest, he ducked behind the central pillar with Tassilo, grateful to catch a breath. As the fire roared, the screams of dying Darkspawn never sounded so sweet.

 “You are bleeding, _mon professeur_.” Tassilo said, rummaging through a pack.

“As are you, my friend. You don’t happen to know who our savior might be?”

Tassilo shook his head as he wrapped Saunière’s arm with a bandage soaked in a healing ointment. They sat on the floor to take advantage of the cooler, cleaner air.  Both men started coughing as the air thickened with smoke. The professor pulled the neck of his tunic over his mouth and remarked how roasting Darkspawn flesh was as repulsive as when it rotted.

His joints were on fire, but reminded him that he was alive. After he gathered his wits, he wiped the black filth from his sword onto his breeches. Grumbling disapprovingly, Tassilo passed him a rag, which Saunière flicked away with his hand. Sweat was running in rivulets down his cheek and the smoke was so dense that he could almost cut it. His lungs worked to expel the searing air and his eyes watered as he fell into a coughing fit.

When the room quieted, the woman approached through the grey ephemeral curtains.

Tassilo stood up, crossed his arms and bowed. “ _Aneth ara_ , sister.”

She bowed her head in acknowledgement and offered a small hand, with long, slender fingers to help Saunière. Effortlessly, and to his astonishment, she pulled him to his feet as he hacked and wheezed. With a sweep of her cape, the room cleared, with the exception of the heaps of crackling corpses scattered throughout the chamber. Saunière caught his breath and scrutinized his benefactor. Her vallaslin was distinctly Orlesian in design, which Saunier though was odd. He expected an elf with this much skill to hail from a nomadic Dalish clan and not an alienage.

“Professor Berenger Saunière,” he reached for his hat to tip it respectfully and saw that it had fallen off during battle and now lay flattened near the mysterious elven woman’s feet. She must have followed his gaze, because she reached down and handed it back to him.

“Your timely intervention is truly remarkable. My thanks cannot express the depths of my gratitude,” he said, reforming the hat and setting it back on his head.

“I am Fiona. I’ve taken great interest in your research, Professeur Saunière, I’m glad you received my urgent message. Unfortunately, we both arrived too late to save your beloved colleagues.” The flame reflected in her amber eyes.

Saunière wondered if this was the same elven mage that travelled with the late King Maric Theirin of Ferelden. A dear friend of his, a Chantry brother living in Denerim, had recorded the life history of his reign. Whenever Brother Genitivi visited Val Royeaux, they would meet for dinner and over a few glasses of Orlesian wine, would discuss his research. Brother Genitivi explained how Maric and Fiona had investigated the Architect, a sentient Darkspawn with the curious desire to bring peace between his hive-minded brethren and the peoples of Thedas. It wanted to use the Grey Wardens as neutral agents to accomplish this. Saunière seriously doubted that the Warden’s would agree with such an alliance. But before he lost himself in the past, the wheels in his mind started to turn again. _She had met the Architect in person._ The first tangential thought that had entered his mind was what does one say to a talking Darkspawn? Before his thoughts took him elsewhere, he cleared his throat and adjusted his coat.

“Begging your pardon, but we were under the assumption that Duchamp's assistant Felix had sent the message that set us upon this search.” Saunière replied.

“And I apologize for using subterfuge to bring you to such dangerous places. Unfortunately, the Darkspawn arrived before me and attacked the eminent scholar and his entire research team. We must leave quickly, they will soon replenish their numbers.” She walked over to the central pillar and with an elegant touch, traced a circle inset into the stone door. “You must find this key. What lies in the warrens beneath will not only be of great interest to you, but for all magi across the realm.”

Saunière inspected the door closely. It was sealed so tight not even a slip of parchment could pass between the door and its casing. The inset disk was incised with markings where its companion key would fit, a disk-shaped key, roughly the size of this hand. He realized it was the object Andraste wielded in the carved relief outside. 

“I’ve never heard of such a key. Who else knows about this?” He asked the mage. Reaching into his inside pocket, he pulled his notebook and started writing.

“Only Duchamp. Go to Ferelden and seek out Nuraya Amell to help you find it. She will have the connections you will require.”

“The Hero of Ferelden?” Tassilo asked, as he inspected the strange keyhole. “What would she know of this place? There has been little word of her since Amaranthine was attacked…what five years ago? Does she live? With only rumours, how are we expected to find her?”

She turned to Saunière, “Make for Denerim. I will make certain that she will be there when you arrive. She knows nothing of this door or of the whereabouts of the key, however, she has certain…qualities and connections... that will prove invaluable to your search. What lies beyond will be of great interest to her…to all of us. ”

“And what lies beyond this door?” Saunière asked sharply. He had little time for riddles. His patience wore thin even though he was fully aware that his survival was due to her timely intervention. He stepped over a charred corpse and continued to write.

Fiona pointed to a carving on the top of the key. It bore the same script that decorated Andraste’s image on the canyon wall. “This is written in a language not spoken in Thedas since the founding of Arlathan. In a time before men and Qunari, my forbearers lived long and peacefully on these shores. In front of great burning fires, we shared our history in song and stories and had little need for writing. When the Tevinters crossed the seas and made war upon my people, the First of the Firsts took his chisel and carved our words into the stone and onto the trees. Hidden by the wind and the rain, our words are only made visible in times of great forgetting. The words you see here are the work of Shartan.”

“Is this Shartan’s tomb?” Saunière asked.  He was the leader of the elven slaves who joined Andraste's rebellion against the Tevinter Imperium. After Maferath betrayed his wife, his supporters killed Shartan. Little survived of Shartan and to find his tomb would be a historic discovery.

“No. It bears Andraste’s secrets and what she learned about the Maker. That is all I know. I have suspected for many years that Andraste learned magic from Shartan to use against her oppressors. However, as her allies turned on her and murdered her in the street before she could strike against Tevinter. The Chant of Light tells part of the story and the Chantry has systematically supressed the truth from us for centuries. Behind this door lies the proof we need to show the Chantry that generational magic is Andraste’s gift to the mortal world. Magic is not a curse. It was her ultimate blessing. This truth will change the tides of history and empower all mages to rise out from under the Chantry’s control.”

Saunière stopped writing, raised an eyebrow and looked over to Tassilo. His assistant appeared stunned at the proposition. Although elven by birth, he was Orlesian through and through. Saunière smiled wryly. This was far better than discovering Shartan’s tomb. To expose the Chantry’s hypocrisy was a worthy goal and one he covertly pursued throughout his academic career. 

 

“And how are you certain that I will not return to the Divine and repeat everything you have just told me?” He continued writing and did not look up. “I am an Orlesian intellectual after all.”

Fiona chuckled. “Who do you think told Professor Duchamp about this place, Saunière? We have been working together for years. And like I told your beloved mentor, keep this out of the Seeker’s hands and especially out of the Chantry’s. There are some that will destroy any evidence that will redefine the Chantry’s role in Thedas. Don’t forget this is information worth killing for. You have all that you need from me. Go to Ferelden and find the Hero of Ferelden.”

~0oOo0~

 

Saunière and Tassilo walked their exhausted horses into Nessum. As they made their way from the hidden ruin, Fiona placed an owl feather in Saunière’s hat and before he could say thank you, she clapped her hands together, transformed into an owl and flew out the sky-light in the ruin’s great hall. Why the elven mage had to task an old man to travel across Thedas dogged him as they made their way out of the canyon. He hated the sea and loathed the ships that rocked over their waters even more. The route through Orlais on horseback would take too long. The most direct route was the southern road to Cumberland; he’d have to board a ship to Jader.

On the road, they came across a caravan on its side. The front of the wreck was crawling with vultures, pulling flesh, flapping dark wings and competing for the best morsels of dead flesh.

“I don’t know about you, Tassilo, but the smell of rot is quite tiresome.”

Tassilo examined the fallen wagon as his horse lumbered past. “A slaver wagon. Let’s hope the cargo was spared and managed escape.”

Nessum barely qualified as a town. It was more or less a collection of adobe domes and structures carved into the canyon walls. The source of the Minanter River trickled northwest of the city, but did nothing to wash away the dust and grime. A pair of guards allowed them passage through the city gates, offering them a nod as they passed. It attracted traders passing through with wares from the Imperium and the Anderfels on their way to Nevarra City and Orlais. This northern Nevarran outpost was an eclectic collage of the many cultures that came to trade here. Local merchants were uninterested in their arrival. Peddlers pushed their carts and announced their wares, a carpet seller slept soundly amongst his merchandise and women wove through the crowds balancing tall earthenware pots on their heads. The two road-weary travellers aroused no suspicion or interest.

Saunière removed his hat, wiped his forehead and pointed toward a sign swinging in the wind. “That looks like an inn.” As they approached, they tied up their horses near a water trough.

 “The Wounded Axe. Strange name for an inn,” Tassilo remarked as he passed under the sign.

“All we require is a bed, my friend. And hopefully a decent ale to quench our parched tongues.”

 Saunière ducked under a thick curtain that hung in place of a door. It was cool inside the wattle- and-daub inn. Cushions and animal pelts lie scattered on the hard-packed dirt floor and patrons settled lazily upon them. Some puffed flavoured tobacco from water pipes, exhaling wafting clouds of blue smoke that hung in eddying curls.  A fire smouldered at the centre of the round room and a woman in jeweled small-clothes with tasseled hips, sent her fringes flying to the beat of a skin-covered drum. As she circled the room, she stopped to shimmy in front of a group of traders, their eyes undressing her as she presented her ample cleavage.

They found an empty set of cushions and dropped their packs, settling into their spots. A tall man, with shaggy dark hair eyed them suspiciously as he sat against the mud-brick wall, balancing a greatsword across his long legs.

“By the looks of it, they serve more than ale at the Wounded Axe.” Tassilo whispered. Saunière wondered just how sheltered his assistant’s life was at the University. Surely someone in the Languages department had managed to drag young Tassilo to _Le Chabanais_ , an infamous bordello in the seedier side of Val Royeaux. A sparsely dressed serving wench kneeled in front of Tassilo.

“How can I serve you, traveller?” she purred. Tassilo ears pinked and looked to Saunière for direction.

“Two ales.” Saunière said, holding up two fingers. The dark-haired man continued to stare with his icy-blue eyes, giving the professor a general sense of unease. He recalled Fiona’s warning to avoid Seekers and Templars. This man belonged to neither, unless he had gone undercover in his worn and dirty leathers.

The serving girl traced a finger down the length of Tassilo's nose. “And you have no other needs at this moment?” Tassilo shook his head, removed his leather tricorn hat, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. Rolling her eyes she slinked behind a curtain at the back of the room.

“I’ll be right back, Tassilo. Try not to get yourself into any trouble.” Saunière wandered toward the back, looking for the proprietor. A man nearest the back counting coin looked the part.

“How can I help, weary traveller?” When he grinned, his gold teeth gleamed from his wide smile. With a hand laden with gold rings, he gestured hospitably. “Welcome to the Wounded Axe, my friends! I am Hagen. Would you like me to bring out our girls? Magalie is available.” He pointed at a near naked, olive-skinned woman reclining on a pile of pillows. Saunière ached for a woman’s touch but dared not give in to his desires. She winked and caressed her breast, tracing her finger around her nipple and pulling on her piercing. He turned away to interrupt his fervid yearnings.

“I’d like two rooms if you have any to spare,” he said to Hagen.

“For the hour or the night?” The proprietor sucked on a bronze mouthpiece and let the smoke escape his nostrils.

“My companion and I have been exploring the canyons for the past week. We wish to rest before returning to Orlais.”

The proprietor grumbled and named his price. Saunière paid without haggling, dropping extra silver into his pot, fully aware that he and Tassilo would be expected to purchase the services of their women, and hoped that his tip would exempt them from the requirement. Hagen pointed to a back hallway and gave directions to their rooms.

“So what news from the area ser?” Saunière asked.

“Ever since Kirkwall, more and more templars and Seekers make their way north, hunting the apostate responsible.” He pointed to a wanted sign posted on the wall. “Proof right there, gentlemen. Of course, being so close to the border of the Imperium, they always patrol the area for slavers and wayward malificars. But in the last week or so, the place has been crawling with them. Couldn’t be happier though. Templars are my best customers! Don’t like it when the Seekers show up…they tend to scare away business. But don’t worry. They don’t bother the patrons. Just the women. I suspect this Champion of Kirkwall is in the area. But I like to keep my nose out of Chantry business and far away from malificars.” Saunière smiled and nodded.

“And what of the caravan lying on its side outside of town?”

Hagen shrugged. “No one is talking. The slaver is dead and his cargo ran into the hills. We hear dozens of stories, from the wild to the plausible. Don’t matter though. One less slaver to sell a poor soul.”

“Do you suppose this Champion is responsible?”

Hagen shrugged. “Why would an apostate attack a slaver? I suspect he’s got his eyes set on grander targets…the Grand Cathedral for instance.”

“Well, I doubt either Order will allow an apostate within a league of Orlais. Many thanks for your hospitality, Ser Hagen.” Saunière tipped his hat.

A tray of ale was waiting for him when he returned to his seat. As comfortable as the cushions were, seating himself upon them caused all of his joints to crack. Once settled and barely comfortable, he took his notebook and tore out all of the pages. Tassilo watched the ritual quizzically. Saunière took his sword and unscrewed the pommel and rolled his documents into a secret compartment inside the handle. His ancestors once used this sword to smuggle money and messages out of Orlais to the forces that marched upon Ferelden. Using the ingenuity of his forbearers, he hoped to prevent his documents from getting into the Chantry’s hands and was not lost on the irony of the situation. Afterwards, he spent time scribbling furiously in the book.

“Seekers and templars are known to come through here,” he whispered. “I’ve devised quite a story of a hidden temple in Mont-de-glace. Should throw anyone off our tail if my notes are confiscated.”

When he finished, he stretched out and groaned. “The Amell mage…” he said aloud, reaching into his coat for his pipe. Stuffing it with a pinch of Riviani tobacco, he stared into the room, thinking about his strange meeting with Fiona. The dark stranger still loomed in the corner, still watching from the corner of his eyes.

“Professeur Marceau suggested that the Divine was interested in meeting this…Ferelden hero. Perhaps to offer her commendation for ending the Blight. If it wasn’t for her, things could have been much worse in Orlais.” Tassilo stretched out a leg and bent the other. He leaned forward to strike a match and light Saunière’s pipe.

Saunière lowered deeper into the cushions, sucking deeply on the ivory mouthpiece, wishing to take some of the pressure from his lower back. “Oh yes…no doubt the Divine would be interested in such a meeting…but offer a Fereldan Warden Apostate a commendation?  Let’s be realistic my friend. But back to the situation at hand… travel to Ferelden?” He groaned with disdain. “Ferelden is so…” he paused to find the right word, trying to catch it with his hand.

“Lacklustre?”

 

“That will do. I don’t so much mind the countryside, but Denerim is nothing more than a cesspool of beggars and simpletons. This elf Fiona…whom I am sure is working with the White Spire…why couldn’t she send the Amell mage to Val Royeaux? I’d have all my research at my fingertips…this request is so inconvenient, Tassilo.”

“Only rumors flow out of the White Spire these days…What has this Fereldan mage to offer that we cannot accomplish on our own?” Tassilo wondered.

“Excellent question. I fear that she will attract all the wrong attention. Surely the Seekers and templars would like to have more than just a few words with her…how are we to find this key under their noses with a celebrity in our midst? Such an ill-conceived plan.” Saunière’s ale was starting to warm. A fresh pipe would have been better with a brandy, but he doubted the Wounded Axe carried anything worth ordering. He looked around to request another ale, but could not tell the difference between the barmaids and the whores. Holding up his tankard, he was able to procure a cooler replacement.

“Why do we have to follow this advice? We should just begin our research without her. I agree, this task is already full of challenges and complications.”

Saunière crossed his arms and pointed at Tassilo with his pipe. “Don’t forget that Duchamp trusted this elf. She said they had worked together for years. I never underestimate Duchamp. If he thought to trust this Fiona characters, then I can be condescended to do the same.  So, within the week, I will reluctantly step foot on a rat-infested galleon for Jader.” He realized that his averseness for sailing was more acute than working with a Fereldan mage of renown.

The curtain over the door swung open, scattering the shadow with the afternoon sun. A group of men strolled in, grabbed the woman dancing around the fire, causing her to squeal. They were thick, brawny and armed. As they passed a pair of elderly men playing Wicked Grace, a bald and shirtless oaf and kicked their tankards over, watching the reactions from the room and laughing at their own audacity. Everyone at the Wounded Axe pretended to ignore them. The leader approached Tassilo and stared down at him threateningly.

“You!” he growled. He had a small head on a thick neck and his face was lumpy, like curdled milk. “You’re one of the escaped slaves. You killed Mooney!”

The accusation infuriated Saunière, but knew better than to rankle an ill-tempered and badly mistaken nitwit with weapons. He blew smoke toward them and calmly said, “You must have him mistaken for someone else. He is no slave. I suggest you speak with a bit more courtesy to a lecturer from the Université d’Orlais.” Tassilo glared disapprovingly but remained quiet.

The thug looked to his companion, a man whose eyes were placed too close together and his nostrils too far apart.  “Oh, the old man says he’s a lecturer.”

“I says we collect him and deliver him to Nevarra City, as promised.” the weasel-faced man replied, pulling his blade and pointing it to Tassilo’s throat. The third man, large, sweaty and shirtless, drew a serpentine dagger and slapped his hand with it and licked his lips.

“Derko, leave the travellers in peace.” The stranger that had unsettled Saunière gripped the man’s shoulder. He was rather tall and lanky, not the sort the professor thought would be able to take on the likes of the three goons.

“I had a job to do and I’m gonna finish it, Greer.” Derko growled. “Elves just don’t show up out of the blue and order drinks. I says he’s one of Mooney’s and I am going to track each and every one of his snivelling little knife-eared companions, round them all up whip them stupid. If you ain’t gonna man up and help me out here, I suggest you just step aside and leave the Vipers to their business.”

The dark-haired man furrowed his brow in frustration. “Derko. Come, have a drink, let’s play some bix.”

Derko wasn’t listening. “If you come with me willingly, I might not hurt you. If you tell me where the others are, I’ll even let you live.”

This time the taller man rolled his eyes, turned Derko around and gave him a sharp uppercut to the jaw. Derko didn’t have time to react. He wavered, fell to his knees while the dark-haird man kicked his legs from under him. Immediately, Saunière was on his feet, pointing his sword to the weasel faced thug, while Tassilo, backed against the wall, waiting with a set of double daggers.

‘Who’s next?” the dark-haired man with the piercing blue eyes asked Derko’s companions.

Everyone waited for someone to make the next move.    


	12. Nuraya

“Nuraya, you must help us! What are we going to do about Bran?” Telari cried, her voice tinged in desperation. Nuraya pursed her lips and didn’t offer an immediate response.  

Alistair picked up his son—his little mage, who continued to watch the smouldering coals that he had roused in the hearth—and wandered over to the balcony, hoping some fresh air might distract him. It worked, but everyone in the room knew it would not last. Nuraya sat cross-legged and remained quiet while watching Bran’s fire. It seduced her as well and she missed the tingling sensation that came from expelling flame from her fingertips.  The creaking of the door startled her out of her reverie. Noticing everyone’s startled expression, the servant backed away.

“Begging your pardon Your Majesties, I’ve come to collect Bran for his music lesson. I can come back later if it so please you. I was not aware you were receiving guests.”

“No need, Juliane. He’s on the balcony with his father.” Telari replied, pulling the curtain back and tapping on the window.

Nuraya watched Alistair hold his son aloft, helping him pretend to fly. Part of her wondered if he would soon be capable of it, without the assistance of his father. Upon learning of his pending lesson, his green eyes sparkled and he pranced with great enthusiasm, and left the sitting room with his governess.  Both Telari and Alistair bid him an endearing farewell, hiding their concern beneath their smiles.

Once the door was shut, Alistair turned to Nuraya; his was face grim and pale.

“Please, you have to help us,” he pleaded. “The Divine will march an army of templars on Ferelden if they learn about Bran. They’ll think we’re trying to establish another Imperium. Part of me fears that this might concern the Imperium as well…”

“The nobility are sure to call a Landsmeet. Surely they will depose us…throw us into Fort Drakon…execute us for treason,” Telari said, her voice shaking. Alistair encouraged her to sit with him. 

“What do you want me to do, Alistair?” Nuraya asked. A darker part of her was satisfied that he was given the chance to experience what she endured her whole life. Now he would know the pain and prejudice, the embarrassment and shame. When he accepted the crown he was adamant that the Chantry could not be influenced to allow Nuraya to take the throne with him. His resistance would always remain a thorn in her side. Was she ever worth the effort to him? If Telari had not been in the room she would have had a different conversation with him. She exhaled sharply and continued to listen.

“We want you to help us hide his abilities, at least until you are able to influence things with the Chantry…for the sake of the mages.” Alistair responded.

 She could hardly believe that Alistair and Telari were begging her to hide their apostate son. She furrowed her brow, “Hide him! According to the laws of the land you govern, Bran must be sent to the Circle for training,” she said resentfully. “Besides, teaching a child to hide their magic worked so well for Connor.” Nuraya knew that separating the mages from the Chantry had to be done in the right way, for the right reasons, not just to prevent the King’s son from being sent to the Tower.

She wanted to avoid bloodshed and conflict at all costs, which meant not confronting the problem directly through politics. And now Alistair and Telari were begging her to do just that. No matter how she turned the problem in her head, with Bran’s manifested ability, her task had become inescapably political.

Finally, after a long silence, she spoke honestly. “What makes Bran so special? No one was willing to move mountains when I was dragged to the Tower. No one stepped in when Connor was taken.”

She was prepared for their volleys of anguish and anger and braced herself, propping herself up with her arms and stretching out her legs in front of the cooling hearth.  

Telari was red-faced and livid. “How could you say that? He’s my son, Nuraya! You know what Kinloch Hold is like!”

At the same time, Alistair chimed in. “I cannot believe this! You of all people! We thought we’d be able to count on you for help!”

Allowing their anger to bounce off her, Nuraya waited patiently for their tirade to end. When they had calmed down, she changed her tone and took a seat in front of them, leaning forward, resting her forearms in her lap. 

“Now are you ready to listen? Magic always seems to bring out the worst in people.”

Whether or not Bran’s parent’s appreciated Nuraya’s ploy, she was grateful to get the negativity out of the way. Anger always managed to get the better of her in the past. Alistair tried to comfort his distraught wife.  

“When did he start to show his abilities?” Nuraya asked.

Telari looked at her husband and took a deep breath. “When he was a baby. He would make things move, small things at first, and never very often. At first I had to convince myself that I wasn’t imagining thing, and when it became obvious, I hoped it would just go away.”

“He learned to use fire about a month ago,” Alistair added. “I’m terrified that he’ll set the nursery ablaze…or he’ll hurt someone…or himself. He’s such a sweet boy, Nuraya. Last month we were out riding and I sprained my ankle as I dismounted the horse. Bran came over, put his hands around my ankle and healed me right then and there. How can he know this already? Is this normal? We have no one to ask and dare not to speak of it. You and the governess are the only ones that know. But, he is getting more…adventurous. We won’t be able to maintain this secret much longer.”

Nuraya’s eyes widened as she realized the extent of his ability. “From what you tell me, your son isn’t exactly a typical mage. Children don’t often show their abilities until they are at least six. Have you any idea where he inherited this?”

They shook their heads. Telari tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. “I scoured our genealogies. There is no mention of mages in my family, unless it was omitted on purpose. We just assumed that it came from Alistair’s mother.”

Nuraya looked at Alistair. “Your mother?”

“Yes, don’t you remember, my father’s servant? She died brining me into the world. Don’t tell me you have forgotten about Goldanna.”

She remembered the bitter and snippy sister, but more importantly, ascertained that the truth had yet to be revealed. Nuraya wasn’t sure if it was her place to reveal it. Weaving her hands together, she tried to find the right words. Given Fiona’s absence, Nuraya took it as a sign that she now bore the responsibility of passing this information on to Alistair. She took a deep breath and prepared to tell the story.

 The snapping sound of flapping wings interrupted her. Everyone turned toward the source of the commotion. When Nuraya saw the owl perching on the balcony railing, she smiled. Fiona always made the best entrances and had impeccable timing. 

 Alistair rushed to the door and halted in mid-step when Fiona walked into the sitting room. He assumed his familiar warrior pose, minus his armour and weapon.

“Guard!” Telari shouted. Alistair hovered near his wife protectively.

Nuraya dashed toward the Palace Guard, now bursting through the door. “Everything is under control. Take your leave. Your Majesty, allow me to explain. Neither of you are in any danger.”

“What in Andraste’s name is going on here? Who are you?” He turned to Nuraya crossly, “Is this one of your insane schemes, Nuraya?”

She smiled widely. “I assure you, I had nothing to do this. Call off the hounds. Give your guest a chance to speak and things will quickly start to make sense.”

“Very well, stay outside the door.” Alistair said reservedly to the guard, who reluctantly complied with the order.

 After the commotion settled, Nuraya gave Fiona a tight hug, exclaiming “You have no idea how happy I am to see you!”

Fiona smiled crookedly. “You're not the first person to have said that to me.”

Nuraya took Fiona by the crook of her arm and offered her a seat beside her. “Fiona found me during the Blight and has been a great inspiration to me. Your Majesty, Your Highness, this is Fiona, currently serving as First Enchanter at the White Spire.” Nuraya was hoping that Fiona was prepared to explain the rest, and Maker be damned, she’d spill the beans if Fiona didn’t.

Alistair gathered his wits. “What are you doing here? You realize you risk imprisonment breaking into the palace like this? If the Chantry catches wind of this…” he pinched his temple in frustration with his thumb and forefinger.

Fiona’s eyes sparkled when she saw Alistair. Nuraya knew why. How the mage could keep her composure was a mystery. Of course, everything about Fiona was enigmatic.

“Please pardon my unconventional arrival. It’s best that no one else knows of my presence in Denerim. ” Fiona said. “There is something I must share with you in person, a truth that must be revealed to you, Your Majesty.”

“Truth? What sort of truth cannot walk through the front doo and knock?”  Alistair asked, crossing his arms and eyeing the mage with suspicion.

“The truth about you,” Fiona said to Alistair. “Perhaps you should sit down.”

Alistair’s expression went blank, but he complied. Nuraya couldn’t stand the suspense and wanted to blurt out the whole story in one breath. Fiona sat at the edge of her seat, still holding her staff erect. Her amber eyes darted between Telari and her son. 

“I grew up in an alienage in Orlais. My parents died when I was a child and I was purchased as a slave by a Count, who treated his wolfhounds with more respect and dignity. For years I endured his torture, until the day I discovered magic. My first spell nearly killed me, but in the end, he lie dead on the floor. His widow, who was not spared from his brutality, must have taken pity upon me and sent me to the White Spire. Like you Nuraya, the Grey Wardens came one day and recruited me. I served with them for many years and saw both Duncan and Riordan’s joining.”

Alistair perked up. “Duncan! He spoke of you before, the mage who saved his life.” He leaned forward, starting to take interest in the story. Telari, who had known and loved Duncan, also listened intently. "But I would have thrown open the gates to welcome your arrival!"

She closed her eyes and held up a finger. "Hear me out, your Majesty. The Wardens were sent on a rescue mission—a complicated tale that I can share with you another time. Because the Wardens were exiled from Ferelden, we approached Maric to grant us permission to travel through Gwaren, where the Deep Roads entrance was located. He joined our mission. Still grieving over Rowan’s death, he had grown tired of politics and for better or worse, abandoned his duties here… ”

“Who could blame him?” Alistair muttered, looking at Telari.

She scowled at him. “Let her continue Alistair, this is your father she is talking about.”

Nuraya knew that they had no idea what Fiona was about to reveal and wished she’d hurry up and get to the point.

“Maric…was a complicated man. At first, I didn’t trust him. He was just another _Shem_ with a title. My experience taught me that noble men were capable of ignoble deeds. During our expedition, a sloth demon trapped us in the Fade and Maric helped break me from my nightmare. Like Ortan Thaig, my preconceived ideas about Maric started to crumble around me. I saw that he was a good man. We…” she cleared her throat. For the first time, she saw Fiona blush in embarrassment. She looked to the floor and searched for the right words to continue. “…we became… _involved_.”

Alistair caught her intent. “Oh.”

Fiona stood and crouched before him, placing a delicate hand on his knee. “That night I conceived a child.”

Alistair’s eyes furrowed. “When was this?”

“Five years after your brother Cailan was born.”

 She looked directly into his eyes, her amber eyes clear and wide. “Do you know what I am trying to tell you?”

“…that you are…my…mother?”

She nodded as realization flooded into his eyes. “When you are ready and have the time, I shall tell you everything.” The colour in Alistair’s face drained and his knack for witty retorts had completely vanished. He leaned forward, staring blankly, his spinning thoughts and questions quite clear in his expression. Telari squeezed his hand, trying to pull him back into reality.  

Nuraya leaned back in her seat with relief, as if she had admitted the whole story herself. She imagined he was experiencing the same reaction as she had upon learning of her own birth parents. The first time she returned to Dungarven after being taken to the Circle, her father told her a strange story. Duncan appeared at his door with a baby, whose mother had been killed by Teryn Loghain’s men. Learning she had been adopted was only part of the shock. He went on to reveal that Loghain was her birth father. That truth clawed at her, a secret she kept from Alistair until the Landsmeet.  Discovering the identity of her parents was akin to being kicked in the stomach, accompanied with a thousand unanswered questions. She thought Alistair was extraordinarily fortunate to have Maric and Fiona as parents. Unlike Alistair, she would never have a connection with her blood-parents. Her mother was dead and Loghain denied her existence. Maldwyn Amell would always be her father, and in her case, the bonds of love were stronger than those of blood. 

Fiona turned to Telari. “You have a son, the young Prince Brandel.”

Telari nodded guardedly.

Nuraya understood her protectiveness and interrupted. “He’s the reason they asked me to Denerim…Bran is starting to exhibit…magic. Powerful magic, Fiona. I am afraid they are in a bit of a predicament at the moment. Have you any advice on what Alistair and Telari should do? We fear what the Chantry will do if they learn about this.” She now realized that Alistair truly had his hands full. Not only would he have to answer to the Chantry, but also to the nobility. The King and his heir also carried the blood of Arlathan. As far as she was concerned, they were still friends, he had saved her life and she was now in a position to help.

The elven mage stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the courtyard. The fresh spring air blew the curtains into the room. She traced her hands down the fabric. “Things are happening…something has begun. What it is I cannot be certain. The Chantry grows more suspicious and the mages are restless. Their anger and bitterness will soon not be contained. I hear mutterings of trouble from Cumberland, and I will be returning to the White Spire to attend to my duties, to quell the rumbling there. Nuraya, some days ago, I found an Orlesian academic in a ruin near Nessum. I sent him to find you.” Fiona offered the details of what Bérenger Saunière had discovered.

“An Orlesian academic? A ruin? I don’t understand, Fiona. What does this have to do with the mages?”

“During my one of my Deep Roads expeditions, I found documents that alluded to a chamber inside a mountain, protecting a great secret about the mages, but I needed to complete further research. I knew that Balthazar Duchamp’s work focused on the same historical period as the document that I had found. For years we would meet and discuss his research. When I was convinced that our philosophies were compatible, I shared my discovery. With his research, we were able to narrow our search to Tylus Canon. You would have to know Balthazar; he was driven, almost to the point of obsession. A month ago, I went to meet with him, only to learn that he had mounted an expedition to find this ruin. For days I searched the Canyon, to no avail, but at long last, I found his team, dying of the taint. Quickly I dispatched a message to the only colleague he could trust with what he had found—Professor Bérenger Saunière. He has the knowledge and background to continue this search, but he also needs protection from someone immune from the taint. There is a chamber, in the heart of the ruin that must be opened. Nuraya, help Saunière find this key. Saunière will be of tremendous help, but ultimately, you must use the knowledge of whatever you find there.”

Nuraya worked to process the story. “What will I find?”

“And what does this have to do with Bran?” Telari asked.

“A secret, hidden for nine ages, will redefine all mages in Thedas. I can only speculate on what lies behind this door, and you need to bring me the proof. I believe that he found evidence that Andraste blessed Thedas with generational magic among the humans, a gift from the Maker. No longer did men have to tear the Veil with blood magic. Of course, this is a truth that the Chantry would like to remain buried. Once revealed, mages will be able to negotiate.

We cannot risk a mage-templar war—it will bring ruin to all of Thedas. This will be unlike any war between nations. War with the mages will tear families apart; turn brother against brother, mother against son. We have to find this key, protect the secret and share its knowledge. The Chantry will only provoke mages to use destructive magic. We must prevent that. There should be no reason why the Fereldan nobility should reject a mage-king. Tevinter demonstrates how power corrupts magic. It is time to show Thedas how magic can bring benefit its people. Do you see, Your Highness, how this has everything to do with your son?” 

“And how shall we protect him in the meantime? Nuraya, do you even know where to begin looking for this…key?” Alistair asked. Nuraya shrugged her shoulders and looked to Fiona for direction.

“When Professor Saunière arrives, I shall provide both of you with what research Duchamp and I were able to collect. Hopefully, you will find a clue, a place to start. In the meantime, I recommend removing the Prince from Denerim. Take him away from the prying eyes of the Grand Cleric. No doubt she has started inquiring about his education.”

“I could take him to Highever.” Abruptly Telari stood, emboldened with direction and a task to undertake.  “I shall send word to Fergus immediately.” She placed a hand on Fiona’s shoulder. “I will make arrangements for you to stay. I’d like to better make your acquaintance, and Bran should have the chance to meet his grandmother.”

Fiona smiled. “My duties call me back to Orlais, but it would bring me great pleasure. You have my thanks.” She turned to Alistair. “We have some catching up to do. I know you have questions.”

After Telari left, Fiona returned to her seat with Alistair and Nuraya. It was a moment Nuraya had waited seven long years to happen. Another part of her was unbearably sad. She knew she would not be returning to Dungarven for a very long time.

As Alistair digested the news, he turned to her and furrowed his brow. “You knew…” His whisper was as angry as it was wounded.

Before Nuraya could answer, there came an impatient knock at the door. Seneschal Beric let himself in. 

“Your Majesty, the Council has convened and awaits your arrival. Shall I inform them that you will be late, or shall I postpone?”

Alistair stood. “I’ll be there shortly. Come Nuraya, you’ll have some explaining to do later. Seneschal Beric, can you see that our guest is shown to a room and has everything that she requires?”

Nuraya bid Fiona a warm farewell and followed Alistair. She felt as if she were heading toward a den of wolves. How she hated politics.   


	13. Kessler

Swords were drawn and pointed in all directions. Still stunned from Kessler’s punch, Derko groaned and rubbed his jaw, gaping incredulously at him from where he had fallen. Both the Orlesian man and elf that Derko had harassed were armed, and from what Kessler could quickly determine, were not about to put up with the Viper’s foolishness. One wrong move and the Wounded Axe would erupt in chaos; something Kessler wanted to avoid. He wanted to send the Vipers a message— _smarten the fuck up—_ and the punch seemed the only missive Derko would comprehend. Killing Derko would have been too messy and raise far too many questions. From what he could see, the Orlesians were no amateurs either. Whether they were interested in slaughtering the Vipers was yet to be seen.

Earlier that afternoon, the Seekers had blown into the Wounded Axe, posting the wanted poster and asking far too many questions. Of course their activities had drawn a crowd, and Kessler joined in, reading over the patron’s shoulders at the description. No one gave Kessler, the subject of the poster, a second look. It was a good test to prove that his disguise and alias were still effective. Ironically, Renner arrived and invited Kessler for a quick drink. He was still looking for Derko. The Vipers had taken off for the day, wanting Kessler to come and investigate a possible sighting of Antivan Crows in the area. Kessler declined in typical fashion, suggesting that Derko fuck off so he could smoke his pipe and work to convince Magalie that she should be paying him for the evening.

Over their ale, Renner had pried into Kessler’s travel plans. Kessler remained intentionally vague and uncertain. Of course the Seeker had no idea that his bag was packed and he planned on leaving the minute the Seekers had caught up with Derko. He was tempted to pry about their interest in the slaver’s caravan but resisted, not wanting to get more involved. After their friendly drink, Renner left, and it wasn’t an hour later when Derko showed up and harassed the Orlesian elf. Kessler figured that they had been unsuccessful in their bid to track down the Crows and decided to pick on someone else.

“What the fuck, Kessler! I thought you were on my side.” Derko whined, his ego obviously as wounded as his jaw. Turovich and Guza kept their weapons aimed at the two travellers.

Kessler held out his hand to help Derko up. “Believe it or not, I’m doing you a favour. You’re barking up the wrong tree. Now go and find yourselves some Crows before you get yourself into more hot water.”

The taller of the traveller, an old man wearing a ridiculous Orlesian hat, glared down his broadsword at Guza.

“I’d listen to your friend,” he said, “because I have no qualms about slitting your throat.”

Turovich stepped forward menacingly; the dagger in his hand vibrated, hungry for blood.

Despite their present conundrum, the travellers piqued his intrigue. They weren’t the usual sort of patron that the Wounded Axe attracted—traders, templars, slavers or a nameless man wishing to escape his complicated past. Nor were they looking for an evening of paid companionship. As he eavesdropped on their conversation, he realized they had been talking about the Hero of Ferelden. Bodahn Feddic had told him all kinds of stories about her, during some of his better years in Kirkwall. She had all sorts of interesting connections to him, so he continued to eavesdrop. 

Kessler always wondered if they were distantly related, but without his mother and his strained relations with Gamlen, he never learned more. Anders also had a connection to her, occasionally mentioning off-hand that they had been raised in Kinloch Hold together. Rummaging into the recesses of his memory, he realized that it was Amell who had sent Anders to Kirkwall after the Blight. From what he could piece together from years of fragmented stories, she sounded like the sensible one. It gave him an idea, one that appealed to him more than cheese-making in Hossberg.

The stand-off continued in awkward silence. Derko crossed his arms and glowered. “Leave the old man, take the slave,” commanded Derko.

“Show some sense Derko. Not every elf that wanders into Nessum is a slave. Look at him, Orlesian leathers, Dalish longbow…”

Turning to Kessler in defiance, he continued to seethe. “Greer, look at him…how often do the Dalish turn up in Nessum? Rare sight they are. I suspect this old feller might actually have something to do with the accident as well. Viper’s keep their word, Greer. And if I was you, I’d get the fuck out of Nessum before the Vipers decide they want to sell a shit-for-brains sellsword into slavery.”

Kessler was unfazed by the threat. Guza went to grab the Orlesian elf, but the old man got into his face. Before either could act on their impulses, Seeker Renner cleared his throat. Kessler wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or worried.

“Is there a problem here, gentlemen?” Renner asked casually. He wasn’t alone and it was plain that the Seekers had arrived on official business. More swords meant that the potential for mayhem had just been kicked up a notch.  

“This is a private matter Ser.” Derko replied. Everyone lowered their weapons, but their eyes remained steely and cautious.

“I am looking for a chap named Derko.” Renner said. The elf pointed to him.

“You fucking little knife ear. First a slave and now a snitch. Get a moment of freedom and you make yourself out to be a hero.” Turovich and Guza glared at Derko. Kessler could not ask for a better set up.

The Orlesian man stepped forward. “Your assistance is much appreciated Ser…” he held his hand out politely, with a slight air of condescension.

“Renner…of the Nevarran Order of the Seekers.”

“Bérenger Saunière, Professor of Ancient Andrastian Theology at the Université D’Orlais. This is Tassilo Dorfadhal, Linguist and Grammarian.” He jabbed his sword in the air toward the Vipers. “These _imbeciles_ have sorely mistaken my research assistant as an escaped slave. If you had not stepped in, I would have been forced to show them the sharp side of my sword.” Saunière gritted his teeth, his face crimson with anger as he glared at Derko. He inhaled sharply and pacified his tenor. “As soon as I return to Val Royeaux, I shall send my good word to the First Seeker. As you know, your order sends some of its junior officers to the university for some of their basic training on Chantry history and politics.”

Renner stepped forward. “Well met, Professeur Saunière. I shall be attending the university in Wintermarch. I shall look you up when I arrive. These gentlemen shouldn’t bother you much longer.” Turning to his back-up, his tone turned official. “Take them.” His back-ups grabbed Turovich and Guza.

“I suggest you come with us quietly.” Renner said sternly, pulling on Derko’s arm.

Derko’s rage resurfaced and Kessler slid next to the elf, Tassilo, hoping to stay out of the way.

“Come with YOU! Get your filthy hands off me! I ain’t done nothing to the Chantry!”

“By Order of the Divine, you are required to come with us. Answer our questions and you shall be on your way to attend to your private matters. You have a choice, come quietly or we will put you in chains.”

Derko tried to burst through the Seekers, in an attempt to storm out of the Axe. “There ain’t no fucking way.” Everyone at the Axe had stopped what they were doing to stare. The dancers had stopped shimmying, the lovelies no longer fawned over their customers and gamblers looked up from their cards. Hagen, the owner of the Axe, loomed in the corner, hoping the confrontation would not scare away business. Renner caught Derko by the scruff of the neck, while Turovich and Guza were led out at the point of a Seeker’s sword. Derko complied but did not quit complaining, his voice trailing out of the Axe and could still be heard as they made their way to the main road.

Once the commotion settled, Kessler sighed in relief, turning to his corner to resume his drinking.

“Serah, Our thanks. Can we buy you a drink to show our appreciation?” said the elf. Kessler caught the old man flash his companion a disgruntled look, but chose to ignore it and decided that free ale was always a good thing. He crossed his arms and bowed politely to the Orlesian travellers. “Arlen Greer. Well met.”

“What in the Divine just happened?” The Orlesian scholar asked, still confused.

“Very long story.” He settled onto a pillow and raised his arm to call over the waitress.

“I gather this is about the caravan than we passed on the way into Nessum. I don’t understand why the Seekers are involved. Very strange indeed.” Saunière said, sheathing his sword and wiping his brow with a handkerchief.

“Are they friends of yours?” Tassilo asked. 

Kessler shook his head. “They’re local thugs, wanted me to join their band of merry assholes, but I wouldn’t touch them with a barge pole when I learned they were working with slavers. Their bark is worse than their bite most of the time, but I wasn’t going to just sit by and watch them pester either of you. I had a little chat with Renner yesterday, mentioned something about the Vipers newest business venture. But why the Seekers are interested, is curious. And that gentlemen, is about all I know about the recent incidents here in Nessum.”

He had mentioned his discussion with the Seekers, guessing that the University and the Grand Cathedral were closely connected. He hoped that, in addition to his knocking Derko to the floor, appearing cooperative with the Seekers would help tease out more information from them.

“So what brings you to the arm-pit of Thedas, if you don’t mind me asking?” Kessler asked.

“Oh, a bit of research. I’m writing a history of the Towers Age. The Orlesians and Imperium defeated Toth at Hunter Fell. I heard rumours that the Orlesians established a base camp in the area. I came here to do a bit of reading in the Chantry’s vaults.” Kessler wondered why they had travelled as far north as Tylus Canyon, only to head into Nessum. He wasn’t buying the story about Hunter Fell, a town further south. He suspected that their backstory was as fabricated as his own, making Kessler ever more curious.

As Tassilo accepted a tankard of ale, he sat back and asked. “And what is a Fereldan doing in Nessum?” Kessler looked at the elf with surprise.

“I teach languages. I can hear your Fereldan accent.” Tassilo added.

“I fled Ferelden during the Blight. Lost my entire family. So I decided to seek my fortune elsewhere. Been finding work where I can. Went to Rialto, then when I got bored, made my way to Seere, and last year came up through Nevarra City. I haven’t been in Nessum long. Long enough to make some coin and move on.”

“You’re sellsword by profession then?” Saunière asked.

Kessler nodded, hoping they were sufficiently satisfied with his backstory. He took a drink, wondering how he could tease out more information from Saunière, who was apparently as tight lipped as he. The cool creamy ale was surprisingly refreshing, and immediately soured the moment he spied a group of templars parading into the Wounded Axe. _Fucking Divine. Could my day become any worse?_ Kessler feared his luck was starting to run out and wasn’t interested in playing a battle of wits with the templars as well. 

Tassilo and Saunière exchange alarmed glances. _Interesting. They shouldn’t be concerned about a couple of templars_. Now he really wanted to better understand their connection to Amell. But before he got too carried away with those thoughts, he started working out a way to sneak out of the Wounded Axe, unnoticed.

The templars fanned out and started questioning the patrons. Kessler’s heart started to beat nervously. He could not yet overhear what they were asking.

“I don’t suppose they’ve come for the fine women and ale. You see them here often, Serah Greer?” Saunière muttered. 

“When they are looking for women they come at night and mind their own business. And they certainly don’t show up armed to the teeth. Interested in a breath of fresh air gentlemen? I suddenly find it rather stuffy in here.” He remembered that Hagen had the girls use a back door that exited into an alley; he just needed to get back to his room without rousing too much attention.

“Hmmm…The air is getting a bit too stale, wouldn’t you say Tassilo?” The elf nodded and agreement.

“Halt!” called out a templar as they nonchalantly collected their belongings and followed Kessler to the alleyway door. 

Quickly Kessler made eye contact with Magalie, lying in repose on a set of cushions, and motioned for her to join him. Wearing a sultry smile and a sheer tunic that only drew more attention to her curves, she slinked toward him. Were he not so worried about the templars on his ass, he might have taken the time to admire hers. He wrapped his arm around her neck and she whispered how he now owed her a couple sovereigns.

The three men turned to face the templar. “We’re looking for someone. A mage going by the name of Hawke also calls himself the Champion of Kirkwall. He was last seen heading north. You run into him?” The templar pointed an accusatory finger at Kessler and then pointed at the poster.   

“You working with the Seekers on this one?” Kessler asked boldly.

“This is by order of Kirkwall's Knight-Commander. Says he’ll double the Seeker’s reward if he is returned to Kirkwall—alive.” replied he templar. _Fucking Chantry. Seekers and templars can’t even cooperate._

“What’s he look like? I see all kinds here. We didn’t exactly come to the Wounded Axe to read the signs on the wall.” Kessler asked, planting a kiss onto Magalie’s temple.

“Just what the sign says—he’s about six foot. About as tall as you. With dark hair and a beard.”  

“Can’t say I’ve heard of him.” He turned to Saunière. “You come across a mage going by the name of Hawk in your travels?”  Tassilo and Saunière shook their heads.

“You will have to excuse us…the three of us have…business with the lovely Magalie here. She charges by the hour and I’ll go right to your commander if I don’t get my money’s worth.” He turned to Tassilo. “Gentlemen, we shan’t keep the lovely Miss Magalie waiting a minute longer.”

“Carry on then gentlemen. We will be stationed in the Chantry here if you learn any more about this dangerous malificar.” The templar bowed his head and found more patrons to question.

With an arm slung around Magalie, he headed down the hall toward his room, flanked by the Orlesian professor and his assistant. Kessler could hardly believe his luck as he locked the door behind him. His heart was pounding and inside he felt on the verge of panic. Shasta sniffed each of the visitors suspiciously.

Magalie sat on the bed. “Three naughty little boys, on the run from the Chantry. Forget to say your prayers, old man?”

While Saunière rattled off some ridiculous story about seeking their fortune from a band of Rivaini pirates, Kessler threw open the window sash and crawled out the first floor window. Without looking, he landed into a rubbish heap.

Brushing off some wayward potato peelings he whistled for Shasta. First he heard a whine, then nails scratching the wall and before he could roll out of the way, his massive hound landed on top of him, licking his face.

After Tassilo’s more graceful exit, he helped Saunière, who complained bitterly about his knees and back.

“Oh come on boys, I was hoping for a bit more fun than that…” said Magalie as she leaned out the window. Kessler tossed her more coin.

“For your troubles, little lamb. You didn’t see us leave did you?”

Magalie grinned, kissed the coin and sealed her lips with it.

Once Saunière had regained his balance from his awkward window escape, he tipped his hat. “Thank-you very much for your assistance Serah Greer,” he said, “But, we must be on our way. I’m grateful I did not have to endure a tedious confrontation with the templars. We wish you luck on your travels.” He bowed his head and started to walk away.

Kessler called after them. “Why don’t I accompany you for a while? Could help you keep out of trouble.”

Saunière stood with his arms crossed and raised an eyebrow at him. The late afternoon light made long shadows down the narrow alleyway. Amidst the smell of rotting garbage and dung, Kessler caught a whiff of roasting meat and wished for a quiet corner and a heaping plate. After years of working closely with Varric and Anders, he realized he was not cut out for life of a lone mercenary and wanted to connect with a new set of companions to help relieve the weight of his past. The Orlesians seemed to be the perfect candidates. They knew Amell, they were obviously trying to stay out of Chantry business and they weren’t as stupid as the Vipers.  

“While I appreciate your intervention, we are quite capable on our own. No need to trouble you any further.”

“Where are you headed?” Kessler asked, working his charm.

Saunière appeared impatient at his questions, but Tassilo interjected before the professor could interrupt. “Nevarra City, Serah. Two days ride.” Kessler sensed that Tassilo had revealed too much for his companion’s liking.   

“You’re in luck gentlemen, I am on my way to Cumberland. Let me accompany you as far as your destination.” For all the hours he had played bix with Isabela, tonight of all nights, he had to play his cards right. All he had to do was convince the old man that it was in his best interest to have an escort and before long, he’d be able to pry out more information about their connection with Amell.

Saunière grumbled. “That won’t be necessary, Serah.” Saunière tipped his hat. “Adieu, and best of luck on your travels.” Impatiently, he turned to his companion. “Come Tassilo, let’s be on our way.” Tassilo furrowed his brow but spoke no more.

As they exited the alleyway, Kessler could tell that an argument had erupted between them. As Kessler tried to work out his next move, two Seekers stopped them before they could disappear into Nessum’s market square. He ducked behind a barrel and put a finger over his lip to signal Shasta to be silent.

It wasn’t Renner. “Excuse me gentlemen, we’d like you to come with us,” said a woman with a thick Nevarran accent. _More Seekers? What the fuck have I gotten myself into?_

“Pardon me, Seeker. We just had a lengthy conversation with Renner. If you will step aside, we will be on our way.” Kessler watched Saunière try and slip past. He had no idea what was going on. Maybe Derko fabricated some lie that the Orlesians had been involved with the slaver caravan, or maybe the Seekers were on to them, whoever they were, and whatever they were doing that required avoiding the Chantry. Why had Renner not picked them up in the first place?

Remaining hidden, he watched the Seekers rough up Tassilo and Saunière escort them onto the back of a wagon, taking them into custody. Despite the questions, Kessler saw their capture as a fortuitous turn of events.  

Once the cart had departed, he returned to his window and whispered, “Magalie! You still in there?” She popped her head out again, leaning on the sill, looking quite bored.

“You coming in? I’m getting all hot and bothered with nothing to do.” Her voice was pouty, but her eyes were smouldering, ripe with seduction. 

With great regret he said, “Sorry my dear, could you pass me my pack and sword. I have an appointment.”

She rolled her eyes and disappeared into the darkness of his room, passing him the items he requested.

“Quite a ruckus inside. I think I’m going to stay put. You sure you don’t want to join me?” Seeing that you’ve already been paid and all.” From inside, Kessler could hear someone pounding on the door.

“I’m working! Come back later!” Magalie turned back into the room and shouted.

Kessler had no interest in learning who was on the other side of the door.  He blew her a kiss, certain that she could take care of herself. Ducking into the alley, he wove his way through the garbage, barrels and crates, keeping his eyes and ears peeled. Shasta followed close behind, sniffing the ground as he shadowed his master through the deserted alleyways.

The crowded marketplace offered him additional cover as he made his way to the road that lead to the Seeker’s outpost. Throwing caution to the wind, he abandoned his current plans. Running, hiding and laying low was not enough. For the first time in months he had a goal, something to do, somewhere to go. Kessler travelled off-road and hunkered down in the hills that overlooked the outpost and remained hidden, waiting for the sun to set. 


	14. Connor

The dockyards reeked of fish. Connor, broke into a light jog as he kept up with Revik’s pace, wove through the crowd of sailors and traders, and tried to avoid drawing any undue attention to himself. The crescent moon reflected off the surface of the Amaranthine Ocean—its waters swelled and rolled in the calm spring night against the galleons and longboats moored at the quays. As he kept his eye on the back of Revik’s head, a burly man balancing a cask on his shoulder nearly knocked him in the head. Ducking out of the way, he skipped a few steps and hurried toward his companion, afraid of losing him in the crowd. Stevedores hoisted crates, cradled in rope nets, to awaiting decks, the captains cursing them to pull harder. Others rolled barrels down long ramps, running to guide the speeding cargo safely to its destination. The Denerim docks never slept. 

They arrived at the Capital three nights after Yaleen’s death, travelling by moonlight to evade the templars. Revik brooded in silence as they emerged from the woods and into the outlying settlements near Denerim. Although Connor was never attached or particularly fond of Yaleen, her absence was palpable. Their meals became meagre, barely fit to eat, and it became nearly impossible to sleep without the aid of her sleeping tonic. Why she had not shared her skills with Revik, Connor couldn’t guess and dared not to ask.

While Revik silently grieved, Connor developed his plan to find Nuraya. As he worked through the busy shipyard workers, he felt completely overwhelmed by their numbers. Finding this woman, would be an almost an insurmountable task, as he realized how many lived and worked in the city. He had come to Denerim often as a child, on holiday with his mother at their estate. But, he never ventured far and never alone. It had been years since he had studied a city map and vaguely remembered that the estate was situated somewhere west of the port. Connor laughed to himself. _Of course silly, to the east of the port is the bloody ocean!_ Once he realized that the only people who might know of her whereabouts were his parents and the King, he started to second guess himself. What was he going to tell Revik when he started pressuring him to find her so he could claim his reward?

Revik stopped abruptly, scanned the dock and made his way to an old woman sitting beside a sack next to a pile of crates. She squinted. Once she recognized him, she waved and beckoned him close with an arthritic fist.

“Aye! Comes to trade with old Mavis again, laddie? Where is your lady friend? Always fetched good prices for her potions.” She peered in the dark at Connor, wrinkles deepened in her pruned skin as she inspected him.

“Yaleen’s no longer with us.” Revik said. There was not a hint of sadness in his voice and Mavis asked no further.

“Got anything good for me then? You got some fresh blood I see. You a potion-maker boy?”

Connor shook his head vigorously as Revik started emptying his pack. He tossed a sword, two daggers, potions, Yaleen’s staff and her jewelry onto Mavis’ makeshift table. The peddler picked through the items and started to arrange them in front of her, tracing each item with her yellowed nail.

With pursed lips, she shook her head. “Rubbish. The whole lot. What am I to do with a templar sword? They would stick it in my gullet if they caught me trying to pawn it. I’ll give you two pieces of silver for the whole lot. This potion has been used…disgusting.” She tipped the bottle, with her finger on the stopper, her mouth pulled to a disgusted grimace. “How am I going to sell a half drunk potion, eh? The staff ain’t worth nothing to me either. Too many templars been sticking their nose in my business these days.  I have a business to run…I ain’t no charity.”

“I came to you first Mavis because I know you will give me a fair deal. I guess it’s time for me to visit Jannet. She’s moved her sack closer to the Pearl, I hear,” said Revik.

The old woman frowned, touching each item again with her boney finger. Connor could almost see her calculating the value in her mind. “Fine. Three silver is my final offer.”

Revik collected the items, shoving them back into the pack still strapped to Connor’s back, causing him to lose his balance.

“Don’t suppose you have anything worth my time, boy?” she croaked.

He reached in his pocket and fingered the ring that he had taken from Ser Guthrie’s finger. “You got any clothes that would fit me?”

Revik pulled Connor’s shoulder, but he resisted.

“Clothes! We need coin boy, not clothes. How’s we supposed to eat if you are alls dandied up like some Orlesian whore?”

Connor didn’t want to offer his reason in front of the old peddler. He wanted to blend in and wearing a set of mages robes made him feel like a walking announcement. With his thumb and index finger, he held out the ring he held it in front of Mavis’ face.

“I have this.”

Her eyes brightened and she tried to snatch it from him, but as her hand clawed at the object, he clamped his fingers shut around the cool metal and returned it to his pocket.

“Hey where’d you get that? You trying to pull the wool over me eyes, boy? I won’t stand for any of that nonsense.”

Connor rolled his eyes and worked his way from Revik’s grip. “I found it, its’ mine to sell.”

“You want clothes, I got some, laddie.” She rummaged through her sack and retrieved an outfit once worn by a city elf. “These should fit ye. Little tight for most sailors, but should do you just fine.” She threw the clothing, including a pair of worn leather shoes onto the dock in front of her. Connor pulled his foot out of his oversized boot and stuffed it into the shoe. The fit cemented the sale.

“You give me these, and we’ll trade everything we have, plus the ring, for fifteen silver.”

His mother had taught him about the price of fine jewelry. As a child, he loved to go through her jewel box and admire each piece and watch each gem sparkle in the sunlight.

When he’d put on a necklace, she’d comment, “That was a gift from my sister. Cost her no more than five silver. When I married your papa, she spoke ill of him to the rest of the family. That piece of junk was her last insult and that’s why I no longer write to her.”

Then he’d stick a sparkling ring on his thumb and look up to her for her response. “That is from your papa. This must have cost him three gold sovereigns. He gave that to me the day he proposed… such a generous, kind man.”

The weight of the ring in his hand told him that he could fetch at least twenty silver from an honest merchant.

Mavis cocked her head and licked her lips. “Twelve is my final offer.”

Connor turned to Revik. “Let’s go find Jannet.”

“Fine, fine.” She grumbled and opened a purse and counted out fifteen coins. “There. Now don’t you be spreading word around the dockyard that I’m crooked.”

He tossed the ring on the crate, scooped a couple silver and the clothing. As Revik collected the remaining coin he muttered. “You’ll be the one missing a meal when we runs low on coin. Don’t come drooling to me when your belly aches from hunger. You’ll have to boil that shoe first and eat it. Now keep up, don’t speaks to no one. We’re going to the Pearl.”

They disappeared back into the crowd, following the dock. Before turning up a ramp that lead to side street, Revik grabbed Connor roughly by the arm and hauled him behind a stack of crates. He grabbed the backpack  off Connor and dropped it onto the wooden platform.

“Give me that robe.”

Connor looked down incredulously then pulled off his filthy robes, changing into the clothes he had just bought from Mavis.

“Pass me that rock there boy…”

Revik wrapped the filthy garments around the rock and tossed them into the harbour. With a _splunk,_ the rock sank to the bottom, creating foam in its wake.  The clothing managed to escape the clutches of the drowning stone and swirled in the choppy water. As Connor watched the fabrics billow and furl just under the dark oily surface, Revik’s rusty staff impaled the waves and caught Connor’s ill-fitting and filthy robe, taking it to the sea floor.

“Once I gets more work, I’ll get a better staff. Piece of shite that one was anyway. Vibrated in my hand every time I used it…”

They made their way through the dock and followed the thinning crowd to Oyster Street. Beggars loomed in the shadows, holding out their thin arms and looked into Connor’s eyes with desperation. A woman with a crying baby grabbed the tail of Revik’s tunic.

“Kind ser, I’ll sells you the babe for a copper. Raise him up and make yourself a squire. Never have to lift a finger again.” In a rage, Revik threatened her with the back of his hand. It must have been a common reaction to her pleading because she didn’t recoil.

“Get your maggoty hand off me slut or I’ll call the King’s Guard to arrest you for slavery.”

Without batting an eyelash, she held her boney hand out to the next man who approached and made the same offer.

Connor thought he knew what desperation looked like. The mages, who had best learned to cope with their fate, had erected stone walls around their resentment and despondency. Eventually, the only evidence of their deep seeded pain was an indifferent gaze. No matter how many jokes were shared in the dining room, this half-blank stare always remained; always reminding Connor that time never healed the Chantry’s wounds. Mages with thinner skins were made Tranquil. Connor often wondered what sort of mage he would become, if he would be strong enough to harden his heart and if he already had that look in his eye.

The poverty he saw on Oyster Street made the troubles in the Tower appear petty. Children with fat bellies and spindly legs rubbed their runny noses as they watched the pedestrians file past. Men with missing limbs hobbled on driftwood canes, begging for a coin or a tankard of ale. Connor wondered if Denerim was a place where hope came to die.

At the first intersection, they turned right and the crowd thickened again. Sailor and pirates, guards and mercenaries mingled in front of a ramshackle building. Women with blouses pulled off their shoulders, served them ale and straddled their laps. A man shaped like a barrel balanced a petite blonde elven maiden on his lap. Her blouse was bunched around her waist and both his meaty hands cupped her breasts. Connor’s face burned. He had never seen women act this way before, and awkwardly turned away after seeing a woman’s pale and naked flash for the first time. He tried to steal a glance at the elven girl’s expression, trying to prevent his eyes from starring at her dark, erect nipples, and was shocked to see that she seemed to be enjoying herself.

“Ah, the Pearl.” Revik chuckled. “Stay close and don’t say a word to no one. Templars come here, as do many other characters who would sooner see an apostate floating face up in the harbour.”

The men leered at him as they made their way to the front door. Connor couldn’t even begin to imagine what it was like inside the Pearl and had seen quite enough already. A one-eyed man, dressed completely in black leather, called him over and offered him gold for the night.

“He isn’t for sale this one, go fuck yourself.” Revik said, pushing Connor out of the one-eyed man’s way. 

The Pearl’s interior was packed full of men. A naked woman danced on a table across from him, her dark hair swishing and looping as swung her head, while men gawked and stuck their noses in their tankards. Revik pointed to a small table against the wall and instructed him to sit.

“Stay there and don’t move. Don’t look, don’t smile, don’t speak to a soul. Keeps your nose to yourself. I’ve gots to see about a job. You’re gonna have to start paying for those fancy clothes you just wasted my money on. I’ve got eyes all over the Pearl…sticks with me and I’ll make sure you don’t get sold as a rent-boy to the owner. You’d fetch good coin…good things I’ve gots morals.” Connor nodded nervously and watched Revik disappear into the crowd. Quickly, he put two-and-two together and surmised what services he could be sold for, causing his stomach to lurch as he pondered the possibility.

He set his pack on the floor and took a seat, leaning against the wall. He had to stop watching the women, as they were making his groin perk up with interest. No one at the tower had ever made him react in this way before, and it took him completely off guard. Did all grown men react this way in a brothel, he wondered. He crossed his legs to quell the sensation and focused elsewhere. To his right, a group of men sat at a table playing cards, tossing coin into a large pile in the centre. A couple of women watched over their shoulder, but the gamblers were not as distracted as he was. To his left were two men deep in conversation. One was swarthy and dark, the other was a red-haired dwarf, with a braided beard, and a double-headed axe leaning against the table. Both wore armour and stowed their helmets on the table. The dwarf laughed a lot, slapping his leg and guffawing above the din of the room.

For a moment, Connor caught his eye, but looked away. He did not want to be propositioned by a loud-mouthed dwarf with an axe. He groped for the knife he had strapped to his calf, glad that he was finally out of the robes. Denerim’s sheer size and scale frightened him. For the time being, he felt safer with Revik. Every time he thought about venturing into the city alone, his belly started to ache again.

“I hear Amell arrived in the city last night.” A man with shoulder-length dark hair said to his dwarf companion.

The dwarf slammed his fists on the table with a wide smile. “Victorious flaming fingers has finally come for a visit? It’s about sodding time! Was gonna drag her here by the braid myself. You know what that means, Nate…” He wiped foam from his moustache.

“What?”

“Means there’s going to be a big party at the Gnawed…” he rubbed his hands together with a grin.

The conversation caught Connor’s attention and he continued to listen attentively. He was sure the man had said _Amell_. Was he referring to Nuraya, he wondered?  

“What brings her to Denerim?” The Dwarf asked, turning slightly more serious. His feet did not touch the floor and had a tendency of kicking the legs of the table. 

The man shrugged. “An old friend of mine works for the Palace guard. Says that the King sent for her.”

“Sodding pike twirler. What in the ancestors would he want with her? I never understood what she saw in him…don’t blame her at all for getting out of Denerim…but by the stone I miss her pissy little attitude. Once you’re the Hero of Ferelden, I suppose you can’t just up and disappear.”

Connor’s his heart beat faster. Who were these men?  He scanned the room and searched for Revik. When he was satisfied that he was still occupied and out of view, he tentatively collected his belongings with shaking hands, approached the table and cleared his throat.

“We don’t wants none boy! You take us for a bunch of perverts? Get the blast out of here.” The Dwarf pushed him back. Connor raised his hands in defence.

“I…I don’t work here. I couldn’t help but overhear you talking back there. Heard you mention…my… sister. I’m looking for her.”

“Your sister?” The man asked, scanning him coldly. After Connor nodded, the man pulled out a chair and offered it to him. Connor slid in nervously.

“She has a sister. Never mentioned having a brother before,” said the man. “What’s your name?” The dark haired man raised an eyebrow at the dwarf.

Connor’s mind raced trying to cobble together his story. Upon closer inspection, he realized they were both wearing Warden armour and assumed that they were her Blight companions. He assumed Nuraya would have told them about saving him from the demon. Were they in Redcliffe, he wondered.  His barely remembered those events, but surely he would have recognized the Dwarf had he met him before. Not trusting his memory, he made up the first name that came to mind.

“Markus” 

“Aren’t you a little young to be hanging out at the Pearl?” The man asked.

Connor shrugged, his palms were slick with sweat. “I just came to ask around.”

“Boy!”

Connor cowered at the sound of Revik’s angry voice. He needed more time to create his sad story for the Wardens and convince them to help him find Nuraya. The last thing he needed was Revik dragging him off to do whatever business he mustered for coin. He was already a blood-mage and didn’t need the city guard after him, on top of the templars.

Revik stormed over and inadvertently knocked the ale out of one of the card player’s hand. As it clanked to the floor, a man as big as a bull, with a temper to match, rose up from his chair and grabbed Revik by the collar of his robe.

“Watch where you’re fucking going…”

“Get the fuck out my way…” Revik growled.

“I’d watch your filthy mouth.” He pulled Revik in closer, preparing a punch.

“Show a little more respect, asshole.” His companions dropped their cards and drew their weapons. Revik blanched and began to mutter under his breath.

Connor wanted to slip out of his chair and hide under the table. The dwarf’s companion grumbled. “Looks like the off-duty templars are bored again…”

“Templars?” Connor squeaked. His heart was in his throat.

The dwarf turned to him and asked, “You know that guy?”

Connor nodded as he watched the templars throw punches. Revik pulled his knife and slit his hand. This time, Connor ducked under the table. There was no way that he was going to get involved with Revik’s blood magic. It was one thing to kill templars in the middle of the forest; it was another matter completely, to reveal his discovered ability with a group of drunken templars in the middle of a crowded whorehouse.

The Wardens looked down at him in consternation, to which he whispered, “It’s going to get really ugly here in a minute.”

The human warden stood, put on his helmet and adjusted its fit. He watched Revik slice open his hand and a dark smoke stream from the wound, surrounding the templars. Before the apparition could make itself known, the Warden grumbled. “Blood magic. Wonderful. Come Oghren, let’s get the Void out of here. Best keep our noses out of Chantry business.”

Oghren pulled Connor by the scruff of his neck. Connor could already hear the unearthly growls coming from what Revik had called forth and trembled in fright. “Get your stuff. Better come along with us.”


	15. Nuraya

Seneschal Beric announced the King and Nuraya’s arrival upon entering the council chambers. The heavy double doors swung open, revealing a dark room, covered in wood panelling and banners which bore the sigils of the Ferelden Arlings. The drawn curtains left the room feeling heavy and oppressive. Even the flickering candles in the wall sconces made the seated dignitaries’ expressions appear even graver, casting odd shadows and drawing everyone’s mouths into a scowl. It was turning out to be a lovely spring day and Nuraya thought it unhealthy to have to sit in such a stuffy room. The Seneschal indicated her seat and then took his. The formality in the room could have been sliced with a blade, filling her with dread. Around the table, it was a who’s-who of high-ranking officials, all in their finest official attire. What she wouldn’t give for a group of dirty comrades around a camp-fire, sharing naughty stories. _The Blight brought out the best in people._

The scraping of eight heavy wooden chairs on the floor filled the room when everyone stood to receive the King as he took his position at the head of the table, beside his wife.  Nuraya slipped into her seat nearest Irving, who greeted her silently with a quick handshake and a warm smile. As the King and the Seneschal settled in, she realized that many of the attendees were unknown to her. Even after the Landsmeet, official gatherings frayed her nerves and she suspected today was no different. 

When the room had settled, Seneschal Beric leaned forward and cleared his throat, looking down his nose. “On behalf of his Majesty, I apologize to the Council for the delay, but wish to express his Majesty’s gratitude for your presence.” As he spoke, he looked each member in the eye.  “His Majesty Alistair Theirin and her Highness Queen Telari Theirin welcome you to Denerim, and to the Council. Before we begin, I’ll start with a round of introductions. To her Highness’ right is Lord Chamberlain Eamon Guerrin of Denerim, Ser Carver Hawke of the Kirkwall templars and Knight-Commander Cullen Ellis of Kirkwall. At the end of the table, Her Excellency, Her Grace, the Grand Cleric Endelyon Lewin of Denerim, to Her Grace’s left, please welcome Seeker Rickart Herzog of Cumberland, First Enchanter Irving of the Denerim Circle of Magi, Serah Nuraya Amell, Hero of Ferelden and Amaranthine’s Last Hope of Dungarven and finally, the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, Sazan Rastignac of Val Chevin.”

Everyone took a moment to offer their respects to the others present. Nuraya could cut the tension with a knife. Seneschal Beric smoothed out a clean sheet of parchment dipped his quill and cleared his throat. 

“Knight-Commander Cullen wishes to address the Council first.”

He had changed since she had last seen him at the Circle tower so many years ago. Leaning forward, he wove his fingers together, prepared to address the Council. Whatever had transpired in Kirkwall weighed on his face; his youth and innocence had long disappeared.

“We’ve come in an official capacity at the behest of her Holiness the Divine. No doubt rumours have circulated regarding certain events that have transpired in the Free Marches. I have come to officially inform his Highness, as well as the Grand Cleric, that a great tragedy has befallen the Chantry in Kirkwall.”

“A tragedy, Knight-Commander?” Grand Cleric Endelyon interjected. Her voice was clear and smooth like glass, also having the capacity to cut if pointed in the wrong direction.

“Yes. A mage is responsible for destroying the Kirkwall Chantry. Grand Cleric Elthina, First Enchanter Orsino and former Knight-Commander Meredith are all dead.”

The air, still thick with tension, now erupted with a rumbling of surprise, shock, and questions. Nuraya looked to Irving, the look in his expression confirmed that he had heard the same rumour. He leaning toward her and whispered. “We have heard this gossip for weeks. This does not bode well for Thedas… grim tidings for us all.”

The news had yet to trickle as far east as Dungarven. This was the first she had heard of any trouble in Kirkwall. “Has anyone claimed responsibility?” she whispered, watching the Knight-Commander confer with the templar beside him. Before Irving could answer, Seeker Herzog spoke.

He was broad-shouldered and had close-cropped, dark hair which accentuated his swarthy complexion. Nuraya wondered if he ever smiled, as his expression and tone were so dour that  humor or joy might surely crack the deep lines on either side of his mouth.  

“The Order of the Seekers has begun its investigation and hopes to have the culprits in custody before Funalis.”

“But that is weeks away, Seeker!” The Grand Cleric said, pursing her lips. “Surely you must have a list of suspects that can be rounded up before more _tragedies_ befall the Chantry.”

“We do have suspects,” spoke the dark-haired templar that accompanied Cullen. “One being my brother, Kessler Hawke, the once-honoured Champion of Kirkwall.”

“Are the rumours true that the Champion is an apostate, Ser Hawke?” the Grand Cleric asked.

“They are, Your Excellency. My father, an escaped apostate, hid from the Chantry and died some years before the Blight. My family fled Ferelden before the Darkspawn razed Lothering and we settled in my mother’s hometown of Kirkwall. While my brother was instrumental in settling the Qunari threat, his associations with other apostates are no doubt what led to the horrific turn of events in the city.”

The King, who sat listening with consternation, spoke. “Did your brother act alone?”

“Your Majesty, if I may answer that question,” said Seeker Herzog, in a thick Nevarran accent. “We’ve questioned many of Hawke’s acquaintances in Kirkwall. He was close with the Captain of the Guard, who insists that the former Warden Anders acted alone and Hawke bears no direct responsibility. He has a close associate, a dwarf, named Varric Tethras. Seeker Pentaghast, I have been told, has located his whereabouts and is on her way to question him further. We hope that the Dwarf will lead us to Hawke. It is our understanding from the Divine that Hawke is to be brought before the Seekers. He should be of no immediate concern to the templars at present.” His eyes narrowed toward Cullen as he emphasized his authority.

In shock, Nuraya turned to Irving, also hearing the Warden-Commander mutter under his breath, “Great Maferath, the Wardens are involved too.” 

“Amell, we understand that Anders served under your command in Amaranthine.” Seeker Herzog stated, looking down the table at her.

Nuraya swallowed, her mouth was dry. Trying her best to contain her deep concern for Anders, she hesitated to answer the question that now sounded more like an accusation. Warden-Commander Rastignac put his hand on Nuraya’s as a way to gently convince her to stay quiet.

“We came in good faith with the understanding that this was to be a council meeting, not an interrogation, Ser Herzog. Nuraya Amell is a Warden. If you wish to speak with her, I suggest you meet us at Warden Headquarters here in Denerim.” She turned to Rastignac and nodded. “And I might add that once this Anders is found, that the Wardens be notified immediately. The First Warden will put his own questions to him.”

“With all due respect Warden-Commander, the Wardens have no business in Chantry matters.” Herzog stated. His tone was cool and authoritative.  

Nuraya could tell that Rastignac had lost his patience. Thoughtfully, he stroked his ample moustache and spoke in a low tone. It had a startling effect in the room. “When a Warden is involved, it automatically makes it our business, Herzog. I suggest we continue this conversation in private. I am certain that his Majesty has no interest in listening to the quibbling between our Orders.”

“As it please you, Warden-Commander, but, let’s not forget that his majesty is still connected with yours.” Herzog replied sourly.

“The Warden’s relinquished my duties once I accepted the throne. I trust in the Warden-Commander’s judgement.” Nuraya could tell that he had become accustomed to repeating this statement. It sounded automatic, and underneath his well-practiced tenor, she thought she could detect a hint of regret. If this council meeting was any indication of what the King had become accustomed to enduring, she could not blame him for harkening back to his days with the Wardens.

“Knight-Commander Cullen,” said the Grand Cleric. Her face was as pale as the coif that covered her hair, and her ivory wimple made her thin face even more severe.  “Has the Divine offered any council to the other Chantries in Thedas?”

“I believe an emissary from Val Royeaux makes for Denerim as I speak. You will receive more specific direction then. In the meantime, I suggest doubling your guard as well as increasing patrols around the Chantry.” Cullen turned to the King. “I highly recommend that you increase security at the Palace, Your Majesty.”

“Have there been other threats, Knight-Commander?” Queen Telari asked. Nuraya could tell that this discussion magnified her concerns for Bran. 

“No, Your Highness. But given this climate of uncertainty, it would not hurt. Consider it a precaution.”

“We appreciate your advisement,” said Eamon, irritated that the Knight-Commander from a foreign Chantry was encroaching upon his responsibilities.

“And what of the Circle, Knight-Commander?” asked Irving, steepling his fingers. “The Ferelden Circle has complied time and time again with the Chantry’s demands. Further security measures, might usher forth a chain of events from inside the Circle that might be regrettable.”

“Is the Circle experiencing any issues that you wish to raise with the Chantry?” The Grand Cleric demanded.

“None at all, Your Grace. Knight-Commander Greagoir and I have a good working relationship and we have not experienced… unrest… since Uldred. We all have Warden Amell to thank for quelling that problem.  I worry that further intervention from the Chantry will have a negative impact on this delicate balance.” 

“Knight-Commander Meredith nearly annulled the Kirkwall Chantry, First Enchanter,” said Cullen. “Her approach with the mages can only be labelled as extreme. Under my watch, treatment of our mages improves and I’ve disciplined any templar found guilty of abuse. I recommend, with Her Grace’s blessing of course, that you post extra security around the perimeter of the Circle, but maintain the status-quo inside the tower. Might I also recommend that you show extra vigilance with regard to escapees?”

Nuraya caught Eamon’s eye. Their discussion over breakfast regarding Connor’s escape was still fresh in her memory. _Connor could not have picked a worse time to escape the Tower_ , she thought.

“Wasn’t this apostate Anders under your care, Irving?” The Grand Cleric asked.

Irving bowed his head. “He was, Your Grace. It is a regrettable mistake.”

“Mistake, Irving? Your lack of control might invite similar acts of violence here in Ferelden…”

Nuraya could not bear to listen to the Grand Cleric’s charges. Anders would have escaped even if he was bound and shackled in the Quiet Room.   

“If I might add, Your Grace,” she said, tapping a finger on top of the table, “I was the one who recruited Anders into the Grey Wardens. Amaranthine still stands, thanks to his contribution. Surely there is more to this story, as I saw no evidence that he was either dangerous or capable of this act during his service under me.”

“Your insight is greatly appreciated, Warden Amell. But the Chantry shall wait for the assessments from the Divine, once this monster is apprehended,” the Grand Cleric condescended.

For a few moments, she ignored the debates on how best to manage the situation until the Chantry managed to apprehend Anders and Hawke. Her mind was spinning, as she reflected on her early meeting with Fiona. She remembered something that Anders had said to her, the last night she had stayed at the Circle tower before her journey to Redcliffe rescue Connor. _“Whatever happens, I will find you,”_ he said, _“and we’ll change the world together.”_ At the time, she took this comment to be nothing more than an over-confident boast. Was he hinting of his plans for the Chantry then? 

The last day she had spent with him at the Crown and Lion, he suggested that he wanted to help Justice, the spirit that inhabited Kristoff’s body. The idea did not sit well with her. Asking that of any foreign spirit, benevolent or not, would only invite trouble, she thought. There were rumours on the wind, even then, that Knight-Commander Meredith was heavy-handed with the Kirkwall mages. At the time, she was anxious to find Fiona again and get the ball rolling with regard to their grand scheme regarding the mages. Anders was a stellar partner in Amaranthine, and served the Wardens honorably. He had matured since their days in the Tower, and his compassion towards those less fortunate had become his hallmark. Sending him to Kirkwall to keep an eye on the mages there as well as offer his healing talents to the Fereldan Blight refugees seemed like a good plan at the time. Over their ale, he offered a passionate argument about granting Kristoff his final rest, and allowing Justice to continue his work through him. Nuraya vehemently tried to dissuade him, and thought she had won him over. As she continued to ignore the discussion around the Council table, she realized that when he stopped corresponding with her a year ago, she should have started worrying.

The confluence of Anders, Bran, Fiona, this Saunière character, not to mention Connor, and the events surrounding the Kirkwall Chantry was nauseating. It was time for her to start scheming again. There was little chance that she would be able to move forward with these plans without rankling every order and political organization in Thedas. As far as she was concerned, it was not a mage problem, it was purely political. _Politics—a beast more vicious and destructive than an Archdemon. At least I could stick a sword in a dragon’s gullet._

~0oOo0~

After a quiet and solitary lunch on the balcony in her palace suite, her appointed squire burst into her room. Realizing his lack of manners, he turned deep crimson. He could not have been much older than or 15 years. Despite being somewhere between a boy and a man, he had been well-schooled and trained, but hints of his boyishness still had a way of making itself known.  

“My apologies, Messere.”

Nuraya laughed. “Anytime Iain, I find your lack of formality quite refreshing.”

“The Queen requests your presence this afternoon. Toby is saddling your mount at this moment.”

“Is there trouble?” After both meetings she had that morning, she was not sure she was prepared for another complicated set of negotiations.

“Only if you think that high tea in the hills west of the city to be trouble, ma’am.”

Nuraya smiled, putting the book that she had been reading on the table. “Well, that sounds like the sort of trouble I would like to find myself in. And you, _Ser_ Iain,” she said, pointing at him teasingly, “shall call me Nuraya, or I will be forced to call you names as well.”

Iain grinned and then bowed. “Ser Desmond and I have been asked to join you. Tell me what you need and I shall have it readied.”

~0oOo0~

Loosening the reigns, she encouraged Tandyr into a gallop. The fields never smelled sweeter as her stallion’s hooves trampled the young grass. Ser Desmond and Iain were far behind, not bothering to keep up with Tandyr’s dominance and speed. Keeping her eyes locked and steady in front of her, she guided him toward the open-air tent that sheltered the Queen and her entourage. Easing Tandie’s pace, she slowed him to an easy walk, waiting for her guard and squire.

As she dismounted, Iain took the reins, while Ser Desmond followed her to the waiting Queen.

“I thought you’d appreciate the ride, given this morning’s events.” Telari smiled, inviting her to sit at the small table decked with fresh fruit and sweets. Ser Desmond and the Queen’s guard kept a safe distance, out of hearing range. Near a small stream, Bran and his governess tried to catch frogs with their nets.

Nuraya plopped in her chair, no longer caring about decorum. “My gratitude abounds!” She tossed a green apple in the air and upon catching it, took a bite and enjoyed its tartness. “That was quite a Council meeting. Had you heard about the Kirkwall Chantry before this?”

Telari nodded, pouring a splash of wine in her goblet. “Only rumours. Cullen’s request to speak with the Council, convinced me that they were true. Maker’s tears, the only thing I could think about was how every dignitary in the room would react to Bran’s... abilities.” She turned and watched him lower the net in the water and splash his governess, eliciting a weak smile, but her grave concern still pressed on her brow.

“… Yes,” Nuraya started tentatively, unsure how she should raise the topic of Fiona. “… are you still planning on sending Bran to Highever?”

“If I ever had doubts, that Council meeting, convinced me that it’s the best way forward. It’s not a permanent solution, by any means… We’ll leave in a week. It’s not unusual for us to summer in Highever, so it should not raise many eyebrows.” She poured wine into Nuraya’s goblet and leaned back into her chair, enjoying the wind on her face. A chestnut ringlet had escaped its pin and fluttered off her cheek, giving her a more relaxed demeanour. With a raised eyebrow, she continued. “About Fiona, Nuraya. How _could_ you?” Her tone was accusative, although a hint of sweetness still lingered.

Nuraya figured that the Queen’s idea of high tea in a spring meadow was a ploy to elicit more information about the events that had transpired that day. It was to be expected, and Nuraya was happy she had selected such a setting. A lilac bush that had grown up around an oak arched over the tent and its blooms bobbed in the breeze, releasing an intoxicating fragrance that softened her anxieties.     

Tracing the rim of the goblet with her finger, she wondered how best to begin. “Months before the Darkspawn attacked Denerim, Fiona came to me. We were on our way to Redcliffe, camped a few days hike from Haven. I happened to be on watch one night—everyone else was sleeping. And just like today, poof, there she was. I was skeptical of her at first, but she was able to convince me that she was who she claimed to be. Duncan must have told her about me, but those details still remain sketchy. Regardless, we discussed the mage situation in Thedas... and as you are well aware, that’s been a particular interest of mine for a long time. She alluded to having a plan and convinced me to work with her.”

“How did she tell you about Alistair?” Telari asked, helping her to a small plate of biscuits. Still poised and composed, Nuraya could not guess how the Queen was processing her story. 

“I’m getting to that.  Her plans started with Alistair becoming King, not an easy task, I might remind you. He wanted no part of it at the time.”

“Yes, he mentioned that, but said that your powers of persuasion are a force to be reckoned with. How was Alistair part of her plan?”

Nuraya chuckled, remembering the countless debates and discussions she had with Alistair over the issue. Naively, she assumed Fiona would find Alistair before his coronation, reveal herself, and upon learning the truth, he would eagerly take the throne with Nuraya. Instead, she learned the hard lesson that only fairy tales have those sorts of endings.

“Fiona hinted that there was magic in his bloodline, and so would his heir’s. When I questioned how she knew, she told me she was his mother, and asked me to conceal this from him.”

“So you kept Alistair’s secret… all through your… relationship? And you still encouraged him to be King and to marry me, knowing the truth of his background?”

Nuraya pursed her lips and nodded. The story was getting more awkward in the telling. “It was never my secret to reveal. There were so many times that I wanted to… I had so many opportunities and it pained me to remain silent. Ate me up inside.” She held her arms out, as if she were balancing something in each hand. “Here I had my absolute desire to free the mages. Over here, was the truth I kept from Alistair. I was afraid if I told Alistair, that Fiona’s plan would be foiled. In the end, I chose me. I chose the mages. It wasn’t out of spite that I kept this secret from him. I kept a promise to someone who had a plan to change the treatment of the mages. I had no idea she would reveal herself quite so… dramatically to him. Then again, that’s Fiona for you. As for you, my friend…”

Nuraya looked down at her hands. “I did encourage the both of you to marry… but my decision had nothing to do with Fiona. I don’t want to dredge up the past… but, after we defeated the Archdemon and I better understood my place in the world, I could not imagine a better Queen and mother to the heir. You’ve convinced me, all these years later, that there is not a better woman in Thedas for Alistair and for Ferelden.” Nuraya hoped that it was enough. In the back of her mind, she kept reminding herself that this secret, as shocking as it was, could not be as painful as matching the man she had loved with another woman. She would use that point if Telari had backed her into a corner.  

Telari smiled, but Nuraya was unsure if that meant she was forgiven.  “I suspect Alistair will have a rough time with this. Any discussion involving his parents tends to make him brood. This revelation however…”

“Suppose he’ll send me to Fort Drakon over this?” Nuraya asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Oh, it’s a distinct possibility,” Telari replied, continuing with the jest. “In all seriousness, give him some time. Let him talk with Fiona, I’m sure she’ll keep you out of the dungeons. As much as I hate secrets, I will advise Alistair to say nothing about our meeting with Fiona, at least until we learn more about the situation that is brewing between the Chantry and the mages. I worry about Alistair… he’s so kind hearted. It will be torture for him to conceal his background from the nobles. It took him years to develop his confidence as King, and this news has the potential to erode that.”

“And how are you with this news? It could not have been easy to learn that the King also has blood ties with the elves.”

“Beyond the political maelstrom this will ignite, I think there is something rather poetic about it. A king that links the nobles, mages and elves, not to mention his connections to the Wardens and the Chantry … If we all play our cards right, we could find a way to bring these worlds together peacefully … instead of tearing them apart.”

“ _Peacefully_ is the operative word. If you have any ideas on that matter … I am all ears.” Nuraya tossed her apple core into the bush, watching birds scatter in surprise.

“So this plan of Fiona’s—you’re supposed to meet the illustrious _Professeur Saunière_.” She pronounced his name with a perfect Orlesian accent as she sipped her wine.

“Ever since I left Amaranthine, I’ve been waiting for her. And after all this time, she tells me I’m to meet some old coot from Orlais? This is starting to sound like a bad joke. Have you heard of this character?”

Telari shook her head. “When my parents learned that I wanted to join the Grey Wardens, my father threatened to send me to the University, to separate me from Duncan. I think my mother convinced him out of it. I think I might have read one of his books on Tevinter culture. Just another pedantic academic as far as I can recall… What do you suppose you’ll find in that chamber?”

Nuraya shrugged. “That is a very good question. I don’t know. More secrets…”

Bran was chasing his governess with a frog in his hands. He was so carefree and had no idea about the world that he was about to grow up in.

“Whatever happens, Telari, know that everything I have done, and will do, is about the welfare of the mages.” She paused, worried that the statement sounded over-idealistic, and wondered if Anders had ever muttered something similar. “There has to be a way that we can all coexist…productively. I’m not looking to raise the mages to a station where they are in control. I’m quite sure that together we are stronger.”

The Queen sighed, and bit thoughtfully into a strawberry as she watched her son’s antics. Ser Desmond was now involved, carrying Bran over his head and encouraging him to frighten the female servants.

“I can’t say I understand what it’s like being a mage, but now, more than ever, am I committed to helping you see this through. Do whatever it takes, Nuraya. You have my support.”

Nuraya stood from her seat and pushed up her sleeves. “Before I go freeing every mage on the continent… I have frogs to catch…” And with that she chased after Ser Desmond and took the giggling boy into her arms. 

~0oOo0~

To punctuate her eventful day in an agreeable manner, Nuraya sought refuge at her old haunt, the Gnawed Noble Tavern. The Darkspawn invasion in Denerim had caused a considerable amount of damage to it, but its refurbishment was impressive. Comfortable leather seats replaced the long benches and a small stage was built for nightly entertainment. Before leaving the Council meeting, the Warden-Commander invited her for a drink and promised an evening of amusement. Of course, in the next breath he suggested that she stop by Warden Headquarters the next day so they could discuss the matters concerning Anders.

A small band playing a lively Ferelden folk-song welcomed her in from the cool evening. Ser Desmond insisted on accompanying her, and would not hear her arguments, even when she reminded him of her encounter with the Archdemon. He promised he’d stay out of her way, assuaging her that he was given a job, and it would be impertinent to neglect it. Realizing she was not going to win this argument, she parted ways with him once they entered the tavern, and watched him join some acquaintances not far from Rastignac’s table.

“Nuraya, so good to have you back in Denerim.”

She crossed her arms at her chest and bowed to him. As Warden-Commander Rastignac pulled her chair out, she said, “I can’t say I am feeling the same way, after Council this morning, but it is good to see you again.”

The last time she had seen him was when he had first arrived in Denerim, after her return from Amaranthine and resignation from command. Despite her yearning to return to the countryside, she spent a couple of weeks with him while she handed over her duties and responsibilities. She could tell that the political sensitivity of an Orlesian taking command of the Denerim Wardens was not lost on him either. He was more than competent as a leader and was a good listener. Every so often she had sent letters to Oghren and Nate to say hello and she heard not even a hint of dissent from either.

He raised his eyebrows, as a way of expressing agreement. “Let me order you a drink, and let’s enjoy the evening. We’ll discuss business tomorrow.”

“In that case,” she grinned, “I’ll have an ale.”

Speaking over the noise of the tavern, he asked her about her practice in Dungarven, and how she had spent her years since resigning her commission. After a few tankards of ale, it became apparent that the Wardens were not in high demand, and used the reprieve for recruitment and training. She wanted to ask how Anora was doing, but decided to wait and see for herself.  

“I’m expecting a few others to join us and disappointed that they are late.” He said, smoothing his moustache.

From across the room, she heard a familiar, gruff voice. “Well, if it isn’t Victorious Flaming Fingers!”

“Oghren!” She leapt from her seat to give him a hug. “A sight for sore eyes indeed, my friend! And Nathaniel! Come, join us!”

“Looks like you are few tankards ahead of us…” Oghren beamed and hailed a waitress. “Wench! Get me a stout so strong you could stand a maul in it…”

Nathaniel stood before the table, arms crossed with an easy expression. “Ser Desmond told me about your arrival. I trust your stay has been uneventful?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, Nate.”

“By the stone, you just can’t stay out of trouble can you? Gone off to visit the pike twirler eh?  Can’t get the boy away from the ball and chain long enough to see if he can still hold his ale…”

“Oghren… he’s the king.” Rastignac chastised.

“Doesn’t stop Bhelen from cracking open a few kegs.” 

“Have a seat, Nathaniel.” Nuraya said, looking up at him as he grew impatient with his dwarven companion.

“I really hate to put a damper on your evening, Nuraya, but we just got back from the Pearl…”

“Nate, I said ale first, news later… can’t you see that Flaming Fingers hasn’t seen the inside of a decent tavern in five years?” He accepted two tankards from the barmaid with a grin and drank with gusto.

“News? What’s he talking about Nathaniel?”

“A young boy found us at the Pearl. He was looking for you… says he’s your… brother.”

Nuraya choked on her ale, causing it to go up her nose. Once she was able to calm the ensuing fit of coughing, she gaped at Nathaniel. “My brother? I don’t have a brother. Where is he?”

“We took him to headquarters. He’s waiting for you.”

“This… ought to be good,” she said, toasting Oghren and downed what remained in her tankard. 


	16. Saunière

Saunière and Tassilo spoke in Orlesian, swaying and bumping into each other as the wagon lurched over the ruts in the road. Despite their engrossing conversation, Saunière avoided eye contact with the men sitting across the narrow isle, not forgetting their attack at the Wounded Axe earlier that day. As far as he was concerned, it was their fault that he now found himself sitting on an uncomfortable bench in the back of a wagon, as two Seeker guards keep their eye on him, treating him no better than a common criminal. At least they had not shackled he and Tassilo, like the other three _imbéciles_ sitting across the narrow isle. Saunière decided that it was in their best interest to behave and stopped thinking about jumping from the back of the wagon. His complicity only agitated him more; the Seeker’s insistence that they answer a few questions at their compound had struck a nerve and made his job of sitting quietly unbearable.  

In his mind, his position as a full professor commanded more authority and respect than that of a low-ranking Seeker. Even during services at the Grand Cathedral on Andraste’s feast day, the senior scholars held the honour of sitting closer to the altar than the Seekers—a full two rows closer to be precise. The Nevarran order’s sense of etiquette was obviously inferior. Perhaps if he had worn his scholar hat, their treatment of him might have improved, but then again, Saunière knew that hiking through Tylus canyon wearing his academic garb would have been ridiculous, even to his standards.

Besides their ill-mannered attempt at civil conversation and lapse in propriety, they had confiscated his sword. With keen eyes, he watched as the low-ranking Seeker had stashed it without care beside the driver. The notes he took at the Nessum ruin were hidden inside the pommel. Even though the sword had belonged to his family for generations, at the moment the hidden notes meant far more to him. His head lurched as the driver negotiated another rut and he watched sun inch closer to the horizon and the swaying shadow stretch onto the low scrublands. 

Tassilo leaned back, closer to Saunière’s ear. “What will you tell them, _mon professeur_?”

“Why, nothing of course.”

His assistant responded with a queer expression. “But they work for the Chantry, they will not be satisfied with your silence… it will only make us look… guilty.”

Saunière rubbed his chin roughly. Tassilo was right of course, but his pride had gotten the better of him. Afraid of clouding his judgement, he used their time on the dusty road to weigh the consequences of his actions. Tassilo left him to this thoughts and silently worked to remove the imperceptible grime from his fingers.

“The Seekers are trained to spot lies. We have to outsmart them. Saying nothing may lead them to a superficial assessment of guilt, but being caught in a lie will prove their suspicions correct. Of course, truthfully answering safe questions and staying silent on secrets will only reveal them. Have you ever been interrogated, Tassilo?”

“Why of course not, _professeur_. Interrogation is not exactly a pedagogical technique that works well with students. Have you?”

Saunière pursed his lips and continued to speak in High Orlesian, just in case the Seekers on guard were more intelligent than they appeared. High Orlesian was falling into obscurity, even in Val Royeaux, and its usage was now relegated to evenings at the Faculty Club where the senior scholars gathered for their monthly wine tasting. He was sure that Tassilo was enjoying the exercise and hoped it might ease his stress and fear from their present circumstances.

“A few times, yes, once upon a time when I was a young man.”

“When you were a templar?” Tassilo rarely asked about his time with the order, as Saunière made it apparent that it was not a topic he was comfortable sharing. Besides, his adventures with the templars never held much fascination, and preferred discussing the deification of Archdemons during Blights.

Saunière nodded. “Once we had taken a malificar into custody. In retaliation, they raided our camp and took me prisoner.”

“I have a hard time imagining that you’d let anyone take you prisoner…” Tassilo looked around the back of the wagon and frowned.

Saunière caught the irony and chuckled. “I was under the influence of a sleeping draught in the infirmary. Surprised they did not have me killed when I refused to reveal where we kept our prisoners. Of course, a group of angry malificars make pathetic interrogators. I sang like a bird, told nothing but balderdash and was returned, unharmed. I had single-handedly sent the entire group right into the middle of an ambush.” He grinned smugly as he recalled the event.

Not interested in reminiscing the poignant moments in his youth, he looked at Tassilo, narrowing his eyes.“When we arrive, we say nothing.”

“Nothing, _professeur_?” Tassilo raised an eyebrow, not following Saunière’s scheming. His face fell with concern.

“When a question is put to you, answer that Chantry edict nine, article five, and clause ten grants any full member of the Chantry’s bodies, the University being included, to full immunity from being put to question by either Templar or Seeker.”

“No such edict exists…” Tassilo piped up. Saunière was impressed by his quick wits and cleverness. This would compensate for his lack of experience.

“Of course it doesn’t. Test your interrogator. If they pause, consider what you have said, and bring in a higher ranking Seeker, you know that they have no idea.”

“But what if they know better?”

“Nod with a grin and remind them that every Orlesian has the right to consult a Revered Mother. You must know your rights, dear Tassilo. It won’t necessarily free us from our present predicament, but it certainly should buy us time. Oh, and don’t fall for the ‘We are Nevarran and follow the laws of this land.’ That is pure _connerie_. Seekers are bound by the laws of the Chantry… in every corner of Thedas. True, they must respect the rule of law in the land where they serve, but they ultimately answer to the Chantry.”    

“Will you two just shut the fuck up and stop yammering in whatever the fuck you be yammerin’ in?” growled one of the three shackled men.

Saunière stared back at Derko, not threatened but with a wide-eyes expression and sneer that betrayed his degree of insult.

“ _Ta gueule!_ ” Saunière spat, not forgetting how to swear like a templar, knowing it would anger them more.

One of the guards pointed his sword. “No speaking… either of you.” He swayed the tip of his weapon and pointed to both Saunière and Derko. “Save your voices for Pentaghast.”

If Arlen Greer had not stepped in, he supposed that the Seekers might be carting the Vipers for questioning and he and Tassilo’s corpses to the crematorium. In that regard, things could have been much worse. He used the rest of his time to play over the events at the Wounded Axe and wondered about this Arlen Greer character. Was he working with the Seekers? It seemed too convenient that they had not rounded him up with the rest of them. Whatever the reason, Saunière was glad to be rid of him and convinced that his real story was most likely worth avoiding.

As he thought more on the subject of Arlen Greer, his resemblance to the wanted posters’ description of the Champion of Kirkwall became apparent. The drawing had been sketched with a clumsy hand, but he fit the physical description. Surely the Champion would not engage in discussion with the templars, or cooperate with the Seekers. There was also the matter of the Champion being a mage and Saunière saw no evidence of that from the man who helped them at the Axe. Until he had more evidence to suggest otherwise, he concluded that the resemblance between Greer and the Champion was just a coincidence. Lost in thought, he watched the desert field pass as the cart lurched away from Nessum.

An Orlesian scholar and his assistant. A dead Tevinter slaver. The Order of Seekers and the Champion of Kirkwall.  Taking advantage of the quiet, Saunière imagined being back in his office on campus, enjoying a pipe while trimming a new quill, hoping a more relax mind might help him connect these seemingly unrelated individuals. He had few answers, only more suspicions. Did the elf Fiona lead him into a trap? _No, Duchamp trusted her… he uttered her name as he took his last breath._   According to the Seekers, the Champion was responsible for the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry. Was there any connection with this event and Fiona’s motivation to unearth what lie inside Tylus Canyon? And what about the slaver, was he an agent of the Black Divine, with connections, Fiona and the Champion? Did the Hero of Ferelden have any deeper involvement than Fiona had let on? After a time, the cart turned a corner onto an even rougher path and squeaked toward a group of rough buildings.

_The Seekers have yet to establish a firm footing in Nessum it seems. I wonder how many seasoned Seekers have agreed to such a posting?_

When the cart came to a stop, the Guard hopped down and ordered everyone off the back. Tassilo offered a hand to Saunière, but he brushed it aside, too proud to accept his well-meaning gesture in front of the Seekers. As he waited for the shackled trio of idiots to awkwardly disembark, he took inventory of the compound. The stable had been converted to house prisoners which meant that they had not been in the habit of keeping them long. A woman with dark cropped hair, who had sat beside the driver and spoke nothing throughout the entire trip, jumped down and eyed the passengers.

In a thick Nevarran accent, she turned to the guard. “Lock these three up. I want to speak with the Orlesians right away.”

She tipped her head to Saunière and pointed to the main building. “This way, gentlemen. I hope not to inconvenience you much longer. This won’t take long.”

With determination and haste, she made for the main building and held open the door for he and Tassilo. Pointing to a chair in a corner, she turned to his assistant. “You. Sit there. Renner, see that he gets water.” Her eyes narrowed. “Your cooperation will be greatly appreciated.”

Saunière understood her to mean something more menacing and for a moment looked forward to the challenge of her inquiry.

With her thumb, she pointed to a set of stairs. “Serah, after you.” Saunière complied and found himself in a sloped attic, furnished with a table and two chairs. The only light flickered from a lantern that hung over the table. After she told her guard to wait at the bottom of the stairs, Seeker Pentaghast pulled out a chair and offered it to Saunière.

She reached across the table and offered him a gloved hand. “Seeker Pentaghast. I promise this is only a formality, Dr. Saunière.” She stated his name emphatically. He gave her no credit for learning it so quickly, as he had told it to one of her lieutenants earlier in an attempt to avoid the Order altogether. Besides, learning this detail was just part of her job. If she had intended on putting him on edge, then her tactic failed. He was pleased that he was not required to open his mouth at all.

He accepted her hand, knowing that the games had just begun, and shook it politely, with a slight nod in confirmation. Her eyes were smouldering and dark and on any other occasion, he might consider her attractive. Contented that he did not need to open his mouth and give her the opportunity to analyze the intent of his every word, he settled into the chair. She would have to be satisfied to study his silence.

Weaving her fingers together, she crossed her legs and grinned. Saunière watched her unsmiling eyes. The eyes said it all, and he had to keep that in mind. “Nessum is terribly backward, wouldn’t you say?” She leaned an elbow on the table and studied her leather-bound knuckles. 

A warm-up question. She was trying to appeal to his ego. Saunière had to tread carefully; she was skilled in the art of discussion. He continued to stare into her eyes, watching her long lashes blink over mahogany irises. He raised both eyebrows and offered a thin grin.

“It is very unlike the Order to bring in a man of your stature in for questioning. You must pardon me, but I am following Orders from the First Seeker. He answers directly to her Holiness the Divine.” He heard her intention clearly: _I act alone and if I stroke your ego long enough, I will earn your trust._ Saunière nodded and smiled a little more.

“I studied at the Université for a semester. Are you acquainted with Professeur Andrieux well? He taught me Early Andrastian literature.” _Perhaps you need a more personal touch,_ he heard.

Saunière had to be careful, as he and Andrieux had been rivals for decades. His colleague tended to be more interpretive and less objective in his analyses, using floral and poetic language when presenting his oral arguments. Every time that Saunière assessed the content of those speeches, he found that Dr. Andrieux’s points were nothing more than fancy words strung together with the intent of confusing his fawning students and there was no actual substance to his content.  He taught all junior officers in the Order, so it was no surprise that she had met him. Saunière cocked his head and continued to listen, hiding his disdain and awareness that he knew what she was up to.

She smiled, almost flirtatiously. “There is no need to play difficult Dr. Saunière. You are among friends. I seek specific information and it’s within my right to question whom I deem appropriate to gather that information. We both know that I have the authority. There are matters that greatly concern the Chantry, and I believe a man of your station will shed insight onto a problem that confronts us. You wish to help, so help me help you, Professeur. Under what circumstances might we have a civil discussion?”

She did not mention his right to counsel, and this set him on edge. Surely, this would be on offer if she believed that they could work together.  He was not ready to use his only trump at the moment. Part of him enjoyed analysing her strategies, while another part was tempted to see how far he could get before her temper flared. She had to be aware of this. As she glowered, he allowed a long and awkward silence to ensue.

“I don’t take kindly to games, Dr. Saunière. I’m not sure what you are trying to hide and I’m certain that the Rector would not wish to hear about this behaviour once I send him my report.”

He must have smiled and hoped that it did not reveal that he saw through the threat. The Blessed Rector had no patience with the Order and merely tolerated their presence on campus. She couldn’t have known this. It took Saunière years to figure this out after careful assessment of what he was saying in between the lines.

“Well then. You must need a break from your journey. I’m sure your little friend downstairs… can be persuaded… to cooperate.” Clearly not happy, but not daring to express what emotion that lie smouldering beneath her steely expression, she rose and called the guard.

“Lock him up and bring up his companion.”

“What about the others?” The guard asked.

“They’ll sing like sparrows once they see the consequences of silence.”

He pushed his panic down and acquiesced when the guard pushed him forward. From behind, Cassandra Pentaghast spoke with little emotion.

“You’re not the only one who can play these games, Dr. Saunière. Perhaps after a few days of Seeker hospitality you will learn that I always get what I want.”

Stunned, Saunière realized that he had overestimated her capacity to remain calm and collected. While he was looking forward to a lengthy session and intended on speaking, he had no idea how short her temper actually was. Never before had someone with such a short fuse outsmarted him. His stomach soured.  

At the bottom of the stairs, one single hope prevailed. His sword. The guard abruptly pushed him forward, but he managed to steal a glance of Tassilo’s cautious expression and dared not offer any outward sign of his fear, or of his ire that he allowed the threat to get under his skin. 

~oOo0oOo~

He waited on top of a pile of mouldy straw until darkness had fallen and it seemed that Tassilo had been gone for hours. In the waning twilight, he studied his surroundings. A decent blacksmith had barred the stable and a carpenter had reinforced the frame. There were no gaps between the walls and the ground where he could burrow out. He had no visibility into the Vipers cell on the other side of the interior wall, although he could still hear the rattle of their chains and assumed the Seekers trusted them as much as he. He also made careful note of the guards on duty: one was posted near the door of the main building and another stood by the road. A third patrolled the perimeter of the property and frequently switched off with the guard posted at the door. There were at least three Seekers inside the building, including Pentaghast.

While he waited for Tassilo, his mind wandered again, and remembered the numerous occasions he had rounded up mages and locked them in the Circle when he was a young templar. The Ghislain Circle, Mont Noir, was an imposing fortress built on the edge of a cliff, and offered few opportunities for escape. It only had one entrance that loomed at the end of a winding road that perilously twisted up the mountain, flanked on either side by poisonous brambles. The back of the tower overlooked a cliff wall that dropped a thousand feet below into a chasm of jagged stone. He spent a few years as a guard there, before his Captain had sent him with his unit to patrol for malificars.

There were two types of mages, according to Saunière. He was aware of the way that mages categorized themselves according to schools. In reality, there were two sorts that ultimately mattered: foolish and clever. Foolish mages often used magic to aid their escapes—the especially daft ones sliced open their flesh and call upon demons for assistance. They were the easiest to capture, as desperate mages depended so blindly on their craft that they failed to see the nuances of their situation, and few had plans for escape. Pure emotion fueled their behaviour; they merely reacted. None succeeded either. The smarter ones, however, Saunière respected. Often spending years developing a plan, and with methodical obsession they anticipated every variable and left nothing to chance and rarely used magic. Clever mages were well aware that a templar had the sixth-sense to detect it, and had the means to extinguish it. During his posting at Mont Noir, he chanced to meet one such clever mage, who had the audacity to escape on his watch. When Saunière pieced together each phase of the meticulous plot, he was impressed, although slightly irritated that he had been outwitted. Not a flicker of magic was employed. He even gave the mage a few extra hours of lead time before reporting the incident to his Commander as reward for his cleverness. Two Knights were dispatched to hunt him down, and returned a month later empty-handed.  The mage, in a demonstration of wit and brilliance, managed to destroy his phylactery in the process. He was never heard from again. Pity Saunière could not remember his name.  

This was Saunière’s first time behind bars and respected that mage even more.

Before he could catch himself wandering into the recesses of his past, the door to the main building swung open. For a fleeting moment, the interior illuminated the courtyard with the warm glow of lamp light. The table in the front room was empty and Saunière gathered no more information. Tassilo, unbound, was escorted back to the cell.

Saunière was relieved to see his poised saunter had not been altered, but nausea rolled through him when he saw that his eyes were not blackened from shadow. _Those bastards._ Tassilo would be easy to intimidate. The Université did not care about a low ranking elven lecturer, and the Seekers knew this. He felt dirty that the only reason he commanded more respect in this circumstance was by virtue of his race. He suspected they would have beaten Tassilo, regardless of whether he spoke or not, to send a message to Saunière as well.

“Pentaghast wonders if you are feeling more inclined to talk,” the guard asked as he unlocked the cell gate and shoved Tassilo inside.

“Tell Seeker Pentaghast that I say nothing unless I receive council from a Revered Mother.”

The guard pursed his lips as he turned the key. “I’m to inform you that it will take at least a week to escort a Chantry mother here. There is only a chapel in Nessum in the care of a senior sister.”

“A week it is, then.” Saunière grumbled.

“Suit yourself.”

After the guard returned to the main building, Saunière inspected Tassilo’s swollen eyes, but his companion brushed him away.

“I suspect it is worse than it looks.” Tassilo said.

Saunière backed off, but had more questions and asked them with genuine care and concern. “What did you say?”

“They threatened me with a branding iron, _professeur_.” Even through the swelling, he still managed to appear more defeated. Saunière gripped his shoulder reassuringly.

 Tassilo settled in a back corner and whispered in Orlesian. “We’re in trouble, _professeur_. She asked me about Duchamp and Fiona. Of course I denied knowing anything of Fiona and spoke of Duchamp’s known research… but she knows something… she suspects that they were working together…”

Suddenly, it occurred to Saunière that someone had been spying on Duchamp.

“What did you tell her about Duchamp?”

“That we were meeting him in Nessum to continue his research on the pilgrimage route.”

“Did she learn that he was dead?”

“No. She never asked. I told her that he did not show up and we were still waiting for him.”

Saunière raised his eyebrows approvingly. “And what about this caravan accident…”

“She didn’t ask me anything about it… it’s a ruse I suspect.”

 “Do you think she found my notes in my sword?”

“I don’t think so… if she found them, none of her questions alluded to any knowledge of what we found. She did ask me a number of things from your notebook, and enquired about the torn pages… I said it is common for you to start fires with the paper… ”

“Plausible, but I suspect she is on the hunt for them… what else did she ask?”

Tassilo looked cautiously into the courtyard before continuing. “She asked me if I had heard anything about the Champion of Kirkwall… this Hawke character. I didn’t even have to lie. She thinks there is some connection between the Champion and Duchamp.”

Saunière scratched his head and thought on that point. Fiona instructed them to find the Hero of Ferelden, there was no mention of the Champion. If he were an instrumental player, he expected that Fiona would have mentioned him, and concluded that Pentaghast was probably wrong on that point, or Fiona was withholding information.   

“Better settle in, Tassilo. It’s going to be a long wait until the Revered Mother arrives. I don’t expect we’ll have an easy go of it either.”


	17. Connor

**Chapter Seventeen: Connor**

 

“Where are we going?” Connor asked as he followed the Wardens through the dark Denerim streets.

“Warden Headquarters. We’ll keep you safe and out of trouble until we can track down… your sister,” the human warden answered.

He and the dwarf weren’t warm and welcoming to Connor, but for the first time in weeks he was safe, at least safer than he had in the company of mages, templars and apostates. A great weight lifted from his shoulders when he left Revik in the templar’s hands at the Pearl. Surprisingly, he didn’t feel guilty at all, nor did he care if Revik survived the encounter. He suspected that had the situation been reversed, Revik would have abandoned him as well. Revik got him to Denerim, helped him make a handful of coin, and that was that. Wasn’t it Revik and Yaleen who had taught him the ruthlessness of being a blood mage? Nuraya would treat him better, less like a mongrel and more like the young noble that he was.

“Did you come to Denerim alone?” the man asked. “I’m Nathaniel Howe, by the way.”

Nathaniel Howe. The name rang a bell, stealing his momentary sense of security. Recalling his long-ago life in Redcliffe, he remembered that the Howes were nobility from Amaranthine. Through rampant Tower gossip, Connor learned that Teryn Loghain had been aligned with them. He had the impression that Nuraya had been responsible for removing Rendon Howe from power, but he could not recall the story’s details or even hazard to guess whether Nathaniel had been involved. Reluctantly, he returned to that grey and terrifying period in his childhood, trying to remember if Nathaniel was one of Nuraya’s companions. To deal with the building stress, his thoughts returned to the present and he focused on the sound of the Warden’s steel boots as they clicked on the cobblestone. Cold steel on stone, clicking in the fog steadied him from the unsettling immediacy of his past.

“Yes, Ser Howe. I arrived in the city last night.” Connor said, dodging a steaming pile of manure at the curb of the road.

“Little green behind the ears to be running the streets of Denerim on your own, if you ask me. What were you doing with that sodding mage?” the Dwarf stated, kicking a wayward turd from his path.

Connor grimaced. “He offered to help me find my sister.”

“I’m sure a blood mage would love to find Amell…” Oghren stopped and eyed Connor suspiciously.

“I think Amell can sort this out on her own, Oghren. She doesn’t need two more noses into her business.”  Nathaniel replied. There was a kindness about him, but Connor did not want to get too close. He couldn’t trust his patchy memory and couldn’t take the chance that they might have already met. He kept his head down and braced against the cool night air. 

In the training yard of the Grey Warden’s Denerim Headquarters, a woman was throwing knives at a straw target, keeping her eyes locked on the bull’s-eye, flexing her arms until she was ready to launch her weapon into its heart. Noticing their arrival, she casually retrieved her knife and ambled toward them in a could-care-less manner.

“Are the Wardens that desperate? Little young don’t you think.” She stared icily, as she sized up Connor. He recognized her but could not place where. The recurring childhood flashbacks soured his stomach and he shoved his hands in his pockets, attempting to hide his shaking hands.

“He’s not a recruit. This is Markus… we got him out of hot water down at the Pearl. Says he’s looking for his sister.”

“Ah, a charity case then. Guess there is no task too small for the Wardens between Blights. His sister is a Warden?”

Oghren chuckled. “The one and only Flaming Fingers…”

She rolled her eyes dramatically. “You can’t be serious.” She studied Connor. “Seems no end to her relations...” As she spoke, her eyes narrowed and she poked his shoulder. “…Who is your father?”

His recognition clicked. Nuraya was Loghain’s bastard.  Of course, the tale was a popular one amongst the mages, especially since Loghain was renowned for inciting rebellion amongst them. His stomach churned as he realized he was speaking to Anora, the former queen herself. 

When he was a boy, years before his magic became known, his parents had presented him to court. Back then, she was regal and delicate, yet at the same time, came across as both commanding and resilient. His parents tutored him endlessly on decorum, and finally on the day they marched up the long isle in the throne room, he was so afraid of breaking protocol, that he kept his mouth shut and nodded when spoken to. That was all he could remember of his first and only visit to court.

According to Tower gossip, Nuraya recruited Anora to the Grey Wardens. The twists and turns of her fate did not eliminate her elegant composure, but she appeared more rugged and less delicate. No longer cloaked in fine silks, she dressed in light leathers, and it suited her. Her crown of golden hair, always braided and pinned was now cropped and framed her wide blue eyes. He knew his lies were a thread away from unravelling.

Connor forced himself to smile. “I don’t know who my father is… but it isn’t the Teryn, if that is what you’re wondering.”

Anora looked at Nathaniel, pursing her lips. He couldn’t tell whether his answer had satisfied her. 

 “Markus, this is Anora, one of the senior Wardens here in Denerim.” Nathaniel smiled, but Connor could not read the message behind it.  To Anora, Nathaniel asked, “Where is the Commander?”

Anora slipped her blade into a sheath on her hip. “Meeting the one and only at the Gnawed.” Connor was getting the sense that Nuraya aggravated Anora, but it was not at all apparent why.

“Why don’t you take the boy, get him cleaned up and a bite to eat while I go track her down.”

She groaned and then opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it. “Be quick about it. And if you don’t find her, don’t expect me to take responsibility… for him…” She spoke as if Connor wasn’t there, in the same way the butcher might discuss a stray dog sniffing the garbage. He was not expecting anyone to roll out the red carpet for him, and her distance suited him just fine; he didn’t want her poking further into his business anyway and preferred to just stay out of her way.

“Follow me.” She signed in a flat tone, “Your smell offends me.” She wrinkled her nose and walked abruptly to the building, swinging open the door and waiting for him impatiently.  “Come, I don’t have all night.”

Nathaniel nodded and patted his shoulder. “You mind the Warden. She’s not one to be trifled with. We’ll track down Amell and bring her here.”

Connor nodded and muttered, “Thanks.”

Inside the stone and mortar building, a round wooden table sat in the centre of the front room. The walls were crowded with weapon racks and portraits of heroic Wardens of old. Armour stands filled the corners and stood like faceless soldiers on guard. The head of a dragon was mounted over the hearth, its mouth about to roar and exhale flame. Rows of pointed and gleaming teeth snarled back at Connor. Drawn to its terrifying expression, he wandered over and reached out his hand.

“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you… might bite back.” He snapped his hand back and looked back to see her glare. “Not every day you get to look in the eyes of the Archdemon.”

“Is that the one Nuraya killed?”

“Alistair killed it. The old God, Urthemiel—God of Beauty. I figure the Old Gods must be blind as well.”

The taxidermist had set painted glass eyes into its sockets that still glowered threateningly into the room.

“Okay, enough sightseeing. Your smell is making my skin crawl. Back to the kitchens.”

At the back of Warden Headquarters there was an old cook, a bear of a man, sitting in a corner peeling potatoes. A pot hung in the hearth and delicious smells of bubbling stew wafted around him.

“Tarben, Nate and Oghren found a lost puppy in the street.”

He did not bother looking up from his task. Cocking his head, his fingers worked the paring knife around the potato, creating a curl of dangling skin. “Little young to be a Warden, don’t you think?”

“He’s looking for Amell.” She said matter-of-factly as she passed and pushed open the back door, not bothering to acknowledge his excitement that Amell was back in Denerim.

In addition to the main building, the Warden Headquarters also had three other out-buildings. Anora pointed to each. “Barracks, bathhouse and supply shed.”

“To the bathhouse first, get yourself cleaned and meet me back here when you are done. I’ll convince Tarben to part with his stew, but expect him to growl at you.”

Connor nodded and ran across the small courtyard and entered the bathhouse, glad to distance himself from the former queen. As he stripped, he tried to calm his shaking hands, still vibrating from nervousness. He was inches away from being discovered and hoped that Nuraya’s arrival might prevent his story from unravelling. He did not come this far to be returned to Kinloch Hold.

After groping in the dark, his eyes adjusted and helped him find a small lantern. He fumbled with the matches and after three broken sticks was eventually able to ignite the wick and adjust it.  Afterwards, he stripped in the warm, golden glow, placing his alienage outfit on a bench, feeling exposed and vulnerable in the dim bathhouse.  

In a far corner, he worked a small hand pump until the freezing water came gushing into the bathing area. As the freezing water assaulted his skin, it gave him another reason to tremble. Spying a lump of scummy soap in the dirt, he picked it up and scrubbed the weeks of grime from his shivering body. With a deep breath, he prepared for the shock as he poured the icy water over his head and worked out the mats in his hair, hoping nothing else had found a home there. Once dried and dressed, he tidied up, not wanting to raise the ire of anyone at headquarters, and went in search of Tarben’s stew.

“I know you are lying… Markus. Don’t take me for a fool.”

He released the door and it snapped shut, causing him to jump in his tracks. Anora was leaning against the building, waiting for him.

“Pardon me, ma’am?” he replied through chattering teeth.

“Your story… has more holes than a Warden’s sock.” She leered at him, her arms were crossed and one of her legs was bent and rested against the bathhouse wall.

Connor shrugged and clenched his jaw. “We all tell stories to survive.”

She pushed herself forward. “Whenever Amell is involved, trouble is soon to follow… Trouble that I’d sooner not get involved with.” Blocking his path, she poked him in the chest. “I hate liars and sneaks. Coming here on false pretenses is no way to start your career as a Warden.”

“I’m not interested in joining the Order ma’am. I’m here to speak with my sister.” He refused to look into her eyes, hoping that she mistake it as a gesture of submission. He had not thought very seriously about the idea, and now regretted being so negative about it. It was, after all, how Nuraya managed to escape the tower.

“Well, that’s just the thing. If Loghain isn’t your father and Amell’s mother was supposedly killed when she was a babe… that either makes you a baby-faced dwarf… or a liar.”

Dead? Her mother was dead? Connor had not heard that part of the story, and realized of all the lies he told, this was the stupidest and wished he had told the Wardens he was her cousin. It was too late, and he tried to work out a way to endear himself to Anora before she figured out who he was. 

Anora opened the kitchen door and with a smug smile said, “I’ll be watching you. Whoever you are. Tarben, looks like you got a pot washer for the night.”

“Aye. Let me see your hands, boy.”

The large cook waddled over and Connor held them out for him to see, relieved that Anora had left and was no longer breathing down his neck. He hoped the burly man would not question the scar on his palm.

“Well, looks like you’ve seen your fair share of hard work… fill your belly and get started.”

He looked to a corner and pointed his braided beard toward a large pile of cookery, caked in the remnants of many well-cooked meals.

~0oOo0~

Up to his elbows in soapy water, he scoured the bottom of a burned skillet, questioning Tarben’s cooking skill. The speed at which he scarfed down the stew did not give him much of a chance to assess its quality. It was edible and far better than the meals Yaleen and Revik had provided, which was all that occurred to him as he slurped it. He supposed it compared well with meals at the Tower, but tried not to dwell on that. Every time thoughts of the Tower popped into his head, his stomach soured and his eyes welled in utter frustration. His hands were raw and the lye started to burn the scar on his palm, which pulled as he continued to work the brush.

The pile of dirty pots dwarfed what he had accomplished. His discouragement dissolved into contentedness, when he reminded himself that it would be preferable to scrub a room full of pots than to be served cookies and cakes at the Tower. Thinking that his stay in Denerim would be cut short on account of his lying, he scrubbed harder.

Using his forearm to mop his sweaty brow, he heard voices in the front room. He paused for a moment to better hear.

“Mind ye business, lad,” Tarben said, as he snipped a carrot. “Best stay out of the Warden’s business, if you know what’s good for you. The Warden Commander takes his business very seriously.”

“Are you a Warden?” he asked. Tarben stopped and looked at him suspiciously. Connor always had the impression that the Grey Wardens were a brotherhood that welcomed anyone, regardless of race or creed. So far, he got the impression that they weren’t so friendly to outsiders, which made him worry more about his meeting with Nuraya.

“I am not. Too afraid of the Joining. Good thing I can cook though. Besides, the Blight is over. Why shorten my life unnecessarily?”

Connor was about to open his mouth and continue with the small talk, but the kitchen door swung open. It was Nathaniel. From the front room, he could hear the rumble of discussion from the company that had just arrived. He stole a glance from over Nathaniel’s shoulder to see if Nuraya was there, but caught sight of an irritated Anora and another Warden he did not recognize. Oghren’s loud maniacal laughter interrupted what sounded like serious conversation.

 Nathaniel looked over his shoulder and said, “He’s in here Nuraya.”

She slinked past Nathaniel Howe and greeted Tarben warmly. Her eyes were as dark and wide as a doe’s, her ebony braid lie in front of her shoulder—she was exactly as he remembered, with the exception of a streak of white hair. Her familiarity warmed him and he wanted to run across the room and throw his arms around her, but managed to drop the pot he was scrubbing into the water with a soapy splash. Wiped his hands on his breeches, flicked his hair out of his eyes and grinned. Her expression turned dark and she remained silent a little longer than Connor had hoped. 

“I’d like some privacy, gentlemen.” Her arms were crossed and she tapped her leather boot on the floor.

“By all means, come Tarben.” Nathaniel held open the door for the cook.

Her eyes remained wide, but Connor could not read what she was really thinking, and somehow knew that her cool veneer hid some severe judgement. She glided over to him, took him by the hand and pulled him out the back door.

“What in the Void are you doing in Denerim?” Her harsh whisper shattered the stillness in the yard.

 “I need your help…”

“Your parents are sick with worry and now the Grand Cleric is breathing down Irving’s neck because of your escape… I’m not exactly in the habit of hiding apostates, Connor.” She pressed her palm to her forehead in concern.

Not thinking, he waved his hands in defence. “Don’t be angry… I don’t want you to get into any trouble…”

Immediately, she stared at the centre of his hand and then took it to inspect his palm further. Recognizing his mark, she clenched her jaw and regarded him with a combination of astonishment and betrayal. All tower mages knew the scar and what it meant.

“What is this? Don’t tell me you got it chopping wood!” 

“I can explain… it’s not what you think…”

“Not what I think! Do you take me for a fool? First you escape the Tower and then you turn to blood magic… after everything we have been through… what you went through… how could you!”

She turned toward the main building, pointing a finger. “I should send you to the streets. Obviously you have figured out your own way. What help do you seek from me, when you have already consulted with demons for help?”

He grabbed her hand, using what strength he had to prevent the tears that welled in his eyes. There was no way he’d let her see him break. His voice cracked when he spoke. “Please, Nuraya. Don’t leave me. I’ll do whatever you say… I don’t need demons. Just don’t leave me alone… I came all this way, now I don’t know what to do.” He inhaled, ashamed that his nose had started to run along with his tears. “I don’t want to be a malificar…please…”

Nuraya became very quiet and started to pace, tapping her lip with a finger. Inhaling raggedly, he dared not utter another word and tried to pull himself together.

“Who did you tell this story to,” she swung her finger between them, “… this ridiculous idea that we’re related?”

“Just the Wardens…”

Nuraya rolled her eyes. “And…”

“Revik.”

“Who?”

If he was going to get any assistance from her, it was best to come clean. He sighed, hoping it would lighten the mood, but her expression remained tight and flushed in anger.

“Back at the Tower, I was punished for reading books in the restricted section of the library. They sent me to the quiet room for the night. Not being my first time, I noticed some strange markings on the walls that pointed to a loose brick… I found a spell hiding there…”

“Someone hid a spell to conjure demons in the quiet room?”

“No…it was a transformation spell… from some mage named Anders.”

Her eyes widened. “Flaming Andraste… Anders…” she muttered in surprise. “Go on… I take it that you used it?”

Connor nodded. “I turned into a bird. Flew right out of the tower and into the woods…” He flushed knowing what he had to say next, but stammered on. “When I finally… became me again, I was… missing my clothes… and I accidentally landed near the camp of two apostates… Yaleen and Revik. They helped me get to Denerim.”

“Blood mages.”

Connor nodded, but before he could finish the story and not looking forward to admitting his involvement in Ser Gilmore’s death, the kitchen door opened abruptly. An imposing Warden with a large bushy moustache stood in the doorway.

“Is everything okay here, Nuraya?”

She smiled, her voice returned to an even tenor. “Yes, Commander…”

“And what about your brother?”

Connor looked at Nuraya with pleading eyes.

“Markus is from my village. He ran away from home and thought it would be easier to arrange a meeting with me if he claimed we were related.” Her ability to lie impressed Connor, the tale rolled off her tongue so effortlessly and with such conviction that he chose to believe it as well.

“I apologize for lying to your Wardens, Commander… I was lost and afraid. No one was willing to help me out…not until I told that story…” he apologized. The Commander acknowledged him with a slow nod.  

“And what will you do with him? He cannot stay here. This is no place for lost boys.”

Nuraya put an arm around Connor’s shoulder. He knew this was part of her own ruse, and suddenly he realized that she was now lying to the Commander of the Grey on his behalf. The thought of flying away and turning up naked somewhere felt more attractive.

“Absolutely not, Commander. I have a friend in Denerim that might take him in until I can return him safely home.”

“It’s very late. We can find him a spot for the night. Does that sound reasonable, Markus?”

Connor nodded vigorously.

“Very well. Nuraya, when you have finished catching up, go find Tarben, and he can show young Markus where to bunk for the night.”

When the kitchen door closed, Nuraya let out a frustrated growl. “Now I am lying to the Warden Commander. I should have turned you in on the spot…” She pressed her fingers against her temples. “So you learned blood magic from these two apostates… What happened to them?”

He frowned and kicked a small stone between his shoes. “The templars found us… they killed Yaleen…but…”

“Flaming Andraste Connor… don’t tell me.” She started to pace again. He didn’t know how to answer, and it felt worse to disappoint her than it did to carry the weight of the templar’s death. 

“Revik killed Ser Gilmour… “

“How long ago?”

“Maybe a week ago? It’s been a blur. I arrived in Denerim today. He took me to the Pearl to find work. Templars attacked him, when I met with the Wardens.”

“So you have your parents, the tower, the templars and a blood mage on your tail.”

Connor had not thought of his situation in quite that way before.

“I haven’t quite decided what I should do with you, Connor. But so help me, if you run away again—”

Connor did not allow her the chance to utter her ultimatum. “I’ll do whatever you say… no blood magic either.”

“Any hint of that … and you’ll beg for tranquillity.”

He took her warning seriously. 


	18. Kessler

Predictability. To anyone else, it would have been a mind-numbing task, but not to Kessler. He was comfortably settled into the tall, wild grass a safe distance from the Seeker compound. Shasta panted happily at his side. As the sun dipped behind the far away canyons, he surveyed the guards, took note of their habits, looked for any deviations in routine and kept an eye out for any idiosyncrasies. While he was watching for predictability, any small subtle changes in behaviour told him a story.

Not long after Kessler had crawled to this non-descript knoll to the west of the former farmstead, the Seekers had escorted Saunière and his assistant into the main building, and locked the Vipers into the cell. They must have been on their best behaviour as they roused no attention from the guard posted by the door. As evening spread its shadows through the compound, the Seekers settled into their routine, bracing for a long, quiet, predictable night.

Despite his focus, he hated stake-outs. Varric always had more patience for them, which made Kessler long for his company even more. He had a knack of turning the dull hours into an entertaining adventure, without risking their cover. Not looking forward to the tedium facing him, he unpacked his water skin and chewed a few figs to tide him over. The night afforded him time for sober thought, something he had been avoiding for weeks. Observing predictability took time, something he had in abundance.  

_Varric would have that guard by the road already lined up in Bianca’s sights. I could have this whole compound on their knees in a matter of moments._

He scratched his head, trying to ignore his magic begging to be put to good use.

_No magic tonight. A couple of stiff drinks might settle this Maker-be-damned urge._

Kessler mind’s recorded every detail of the guard. As his eyes followed the easy pace of the patrolling Seeker, he was thinking how easy it would be to abandon the Orlesians and make north for the Anderfels—he couldn’t have asked for a better distraction. However, the mention of the Hero of Ferelden churned something deep inside that he had not felt for a very long time. Now that the Chantry lay in ruin, his family either dead or estranged and his friends scattered across the continent, he had the freedom to do whatever he desired, and could slip into any identity he so wished.  But this feeling had roused something more intense than his itch to cast magic.

The mention of the Hero awoke a strange sort of optimism he had not felt since he was a young boy in Lothering, when problems weren’t as tangled and impossible as they were in Kirkwall. So strong was his reaction to her name, that it compelled him to lie in the grass in stealth and study every movement of the Seekers.

And why had Renner had not arrested them at the Axe?  _Who is this Nevarran Seeker? She is the one running the show. Why not instruct Renner to question the Orlesians? Did she instruct him to focus on me? What’s that I smell…Oh, yes, the smell of sly. Stinks like subterfuge._

The Seeker’s interest in the old scholar told him that the tension between the mages and templars were not just a problem confined to Kirkwall; it was a plague threatening to infect every Circle and Chantry from the Donnarks in the north to the Bannorn. Kessler sensed that he had contracted this ailment, and his issues with Carver and Anders—brothers by blood and by magic—were mere symptoms. If there was some way he could reconcile both men within his life, he believed, in a strange and uncharacteristically hopeful way, that the bigger problem could be cured. And for some reason, his gut told him that the Hero was part of the solution. Who was she?

With his eyes fixed on the guard, he studied his gait, his armour, that his helmets reduced the his peripheral vision and forced him to move his head from side to side to view his surroundings. 

_He’s a decent archer, judging by the size of his arms and length of his bow, but his gait tells me he’s not a born sprinter._

Anders, in his more lucid moments, before the weight of Justice had taken over, had spoken fondly of the Hero of Ferelden. As he observed every footfall, the way the guard held his arms to his side, the way he carried his weight, he tried to recall her first name.

_Was it Anaya? Nora? Fuck. I’m lucky to remember my own name. Amell. Do know her? That would be a riot. The Champion and the Hero. Distant cousins. Ender of the Blight and spur of the War._

His hands pulled through his hair, trying to scratch away his nagging arcane urges. Kessler wished he had something stronger with him besides water, but knew he had to keep his senses sharp. He took Saunière’s mention of Amell as a sign and dismissed the possibility of it being a simple coincidence. Never having a close association with the Chantry, he didn’t have a firm or strong belief in the Maker. He supposed that if the Maker had sent him a sign, it was Saunière mention of at the Wounded Axe, just when he was able to flee north. 

_Here is a sign Kessler. You are on a stake-out at the Seeker compound. This is surely a sign that you have gone completely mad._

The top of the knoll gave him a decent view of the compound, even in the waning light. There were at least four others inside, not counting Saunière and the Orlesian elf: Renner, their Nevarran commander, and two other guards. He settled deeper into the grass and kept watch for the third guard who patrolled the entire perimeter.

For his amusement, he gave them nicknames. Again, Varric’s absence bubbled nostalgically to the surface; he always came up with better ones. Bowman stood at the road, Stilts by the door and Longfeet walked the perimeter. The guard posted at the front door of the main building was roughly the same height as him, and Kessler observed his body language, noting every nuance. He had a habit of scratching his upper arm, most likely from an insect bite or a freshly healed wound.

_Betcha Stilts couldn’t throw a flaming fireball if his life depended on it. His sword will come in handy though._

The Hero of Ferelden. Her first name still sat at the tip of his tongue—Varric would have reminded. Not that it mattered, he was there to free the Orlesians and, hopefully through his efforts, learn more about her whereabouts. The Orlesians needed her for something, although Kessler never caught the reason. What worried him was that they might inadvertently lead the Seekers right to her, which could set them hot on Anders’ trail. If the Chantry were to catch up with Anders, there would be no hope of resolving the brewing conflict with the mages. That would be it. Carver and Anders would be forever lost to him. Kessler saw this opportunity as one last chance to set things right for himself. If it made any difference in the grander scheme of things, all the better, but he was not going to become idealistic. For the time being, he needed to keep things simple.  

_I free the Orlesians, they take me to Amell, and Amell might lead me back to Anders. I should have known that Anders was unstable. The signs were there. I shouldn’t have helped him. Fuck. I’m such an idiot! I should have paid more attention to Solivitus’ ramblings on rare ingredients. How did I convince myself that Anders’ little recipe would be used to separate that—thing—from him? Oh yeah, hope—useless fucking emotion. Here I go again._

He spit out a piece of wayward fig skin.

_Well, I am partially responsible for the destruction of one Chantry… This time, I will see Anders be made whole again, and I’ll show Carver that war need not to come of it…_

Popping the last of his figs into his mouth, he ruminated on what he was going to do once he released the old man and the elf, and wondered if he should tail them or try and weasel his way into their company. Unsure, he shifted his focus from Stilts to see that Longfeet pass Bowmen on his third round. He started counting inside of his head. Bowman nodded in acknowledgement as Longfeet marched passed and continued his patrol. No one suspected that Kessler had been hiding in the grass for the better part of the evening.

~0oOo0~

The waxing moon revealed much to Kessler. At the count of 1800, give or take a few steps, the perimeter guard passed the road. After three passes, the guard on patrol switched with the guard at the front door, who in turn, switched off with the one at the road. By the time Stilts took his post near the road, just down the valley from Kessler’s hiding-spot, their routine had become familiar. Shasta was fast asleep in the grass, due in most part to the sleeping herbs he laced the piece of raw meat he had fed to him earlier. He never doubted Shasta’s loyalty, but tonight was not the time to demonstrate it. When all was said and done, the dog would eventually sniff him out.

He removed his breeches and tunic at a measured pace, bunching the garments into a ball and hiding them under a rock. With an arm, he reached, inch by inch, into the strap of his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. On his belly, he slithered toward the road, wincing as the gravel chafed his upper body. In his mind, he kept a steady count and stopped at around 1600 and waited for Bowman to pass. Still hidden in the grass, he paused halfway between his original spot and the guard. Not daring to raise his head, he kept his ear to the ground until he heard the heavy footfalls of an armoured boot approach. Still counting and with extreme caution, he reached into his pack and grabbed a length of rope.

Just before he made his move he took one final look. Longfeet took his post in front of the door, standing at attention with precision and great deliberateness. In the lantern light, it was easy to see that he was guarding the prisoners. The Seekers had returned the Orlesians to their cell after the sun had set and the Vipers were up to their usual tricks. Two arms dangled from one of the cells, making rude hand gestures. The tattoo of an arrow-pierced crow on the Viper’s right arm was unmistakable. Kessler had to fill in the colourful language on his own as he was too far away, but it must have been loud enough for Longfeet to leave his post and knock the bars with a wooden club. From his vantage point and without the benefit of sound, the scene was rather comical.

Stilts, engulfed in darkness, save the glow of moonlight that reflected off his pauldrons, continued to patrol the road. His helmet compromised his ability to see in the dark, even with his visor flipped open. From time to time, he tripped over a jutting rock, or paused to stare into the dark surrounding fields. Kessler gripped the rope and waited for Bowman to return.

_I’m so fucking bored. Time for a bit of excitement._

Once Bowman had come and gone, Kessler wormed closer and closer until he was at a comfortable distance from Stilts. At long last, his moment arrived. Stilts stood and surveyed the opposite expanse of the field. In only his smalls, he sprung from the grass like a ghostly cat, and wrapped the rope around Stilts’ neck and dragged him into the shadows. His grip stifled the man’s cries into muffled squeaks, and he pulled tighter to cease his thrashing limbs. This was not an act he enjoyed, and was glad he did not have to watch the man’s face turn blue. The sound of him struggling for air was bad enough. When his tongue lolled and his kicking feet stopped twitching, Kessler held either side of the man’s head and turned it with a sickening snap.

Immediately, he stripped the corpse and donned the armour. Meanwhile, his mental time count informed him that he had moments to spare. With the armored gloves under his arm, he walked to the road and buttoned the waistband of his new leather breeches.

“When you gotta go, you gotta go.” Bowman said.

From behind the helmet’s visor, his breath warmed his face. Kessler nodded, feeling the weight of the helm.

“I’m sending Krausse up next.”

Kessler grunted affirmatively.  

“I find the walkabouts easier… keeps you more awake.”

Kessler coughed a couple of times.

“You getting sick, there Linderman?”

_Two names and I didn’t even have to pry._

From his hours of observation, he knew that the guards were all equals. There were no formal salutes or bows as they greeted each other.

“No…” Kessler paused, wondering if he should continue.

“See you in a couple of hours…” he said as Bowman initiated his walkabout.

_I answer only to Linderman. I am Seeker Linderman. I’m Linderman, well met. Fuck, I have more aliases than a rent-boy at the Blooming Rose._

Once Bowman disappeared into the darkness, Kessler dashed back to the real Linderman and pulled his corpse deeper into the sea of grass. From his pack he pulled the last of what he required, stashed the items into various pockets and pouches and hid the empty leather satchel under a rock some yards away. It felt wrong to leave behind an item that he’d later need, but it was not worth blowing his entire evening. Regretfully, he returned to his post and kept guard until Bowman’s return.

~0oOo0~

After spending an hour patrolling the perimeter of the compound, disguised as Seeker Linderman, Kessler had worked out his plan. So far, things were going without a hitch. Back in his mind, the unexpected worried him. His years of these types of operations with Varric always taught him to worry about the snag, the wrinkle in the plan, the crack in the glass. He had just switched off perimeter duty and sent Longfeet to relieve Bowman.

The moon rose higher in the sky, a cool breeze stirred and the guards continued to work through their routine. Kessler took his position in front of the door— the final phase of his plan. For a long time, he just listened, hearing not even a floor board creak inside the headquarters. Derko was leaning out of the cage, taunting him; it was rather amusing. Had the Viper known who was beneath the visor, the taunts would have quickly turned to threats, not to mention ruining his hours of careful work. He pulled off his glove, reached into his pocket and set a lock pick between two fingers on his left hand.

He picked up the club and sauntered toward the cage, trying to catch the Orlesians' attention. They were watching him.

“I ain’t scared of you Chantry folk… can’t keep us locked up forever.” Derko sneered.

Kessler shook the club threateningly, hoping to whip Derko into a frenzy. He pulled it across the bars, letting it clink and then slammed it within inches of Derko’s hands. Unfazed, Derko spat and with exceptional aim, left a disgusting blotch on the toe of Kessler’s boot.

In a forced Nevarran accent, and in an octave lower than his natural voice, he growled, “Obviously you have no idea what the Chantry is capable of.”

There was little doubt that the elf had figured out that his accent was fake. Through his helm, he caught the old man staring at him with suspicion. Stepping back to obscure Derko’s view, Kessler tossed the lock pick at the old man and under his breath said, “Head south at the first sign of fire. Release these clowns as well.” With his thumb, he pointed to the Vipers.

The old man leaned forward to speak, but Kessler put a finger to his lips. “Not yet.”

The old man and the elf stared at him incredulously as he returned to his post by the front door of the Seeker’s outpost. Kessler grew impatient at his mission’s slow pace. Just under surface, his magic itched to be released. Ignoring the urge, he pushed open the door and snuck in.

Moonlight streamed in through the dirty window near the makeshift kitchen. The Nevarran Commander most likely slept upstairs, but Kessler was not about to investigate. Renner slumped over the table beside an empty bottle of whiskey. He spied two tin cups sitting near a pan of greasy water and padded as lightly as he could in Seeker armour. He filled them with a strong tea that steeped in the hearth.

_Tea, the best friend of the night watch. So strong you could stand a spoon in it._

He balanced the two steaming mugs and let himself out, using his foot to prevent the door from slamming. He set both mugs on the ground and pulled off his glove to reach into his pocket for the last time. Just a pinch of sleeping powder was all that the tea required. Then, he removed a larger object from his pocket and half-buried it in the sand with his free hand. Solivitus has sold him the powder months ago, promising that it was quick dissolving, tasteless and most importantly, fast acting.  The other object, he procured from Martin at the Hanged Man. Martin always had a steady supply of things-that-go-boom and promised Hawke that this one had extra tenacity. Hawke had thrown it in his pack when he hastily left his Hightown estate for the last time, waiting to put it to good use, and decided that now was as good of a time as any. The incendiary device was small, compact, and when ignited, had the potential to alter the rest of his life. He strolled toward the end of the road, with a wide grin painted on his face, obscured by a dead man’s helm.

Of course his timing couldn’t have been better. As he returned to the road, Longfeet arrived to meet Bowmen from his perimeter patrol.

Kessler offered both mugs.

“Thought you could use this… long night.”

Both guards graciously accepted his offering.

“I’d better get back to my post.” He jogged back and avoided the bomb he had planted earlier.

His heart thrummed, glad the slow laborious phase of his plan was complete. His magic simmered in his chest and instinctively waited for release. At the road, the guards sipped their steaming cups. It was almost time. Smiling smugly, enjoying his last few peaceful minutes, he continued his watch, knowing this was the calm before the storm. His magic gnawed at him from the inside, making his skin crawl.

_Not yet… don’t want to blow your cover, Kess._

He glanced toward the road where the guards enjoy their warm tea. From the cell, the Orlesian beckoned him over.

_Fuck old man, what more could you possibly want from me? Not now._

Every moment counted. He did not have time for this. The old man’s signal became more frantic. He sauntered over, hoping that this was not the snag he had been dreading all evening.

“Find my sword” Saunière whispered, “It’s in a corner nearest the stairwell. I will reward you handsomely for its return.”

Kessler shook his head. “Too risky.”

“Then I shall take the chance and retrieve it myself.”

Kessler grumbled. “Is it worth the trouble?”

“I don’t know who you are, or your intentions, but do you suppose I would risk my release if it were not?”

“You owe me.” Kessler pointed at him and returned to his post.

Stepping over the last part of his plan, he stuck his head inside the door and scanned the interior. The sword gleamed in the corner. On tip toe, Kessler retrieved it, cringing as the floorboards creaked. Renner’s snoring hitched in response. Kessler froze in place, before setting his foot down and adjusting his weight. When the snores commenced with increased ferocity, Kessler grabbed what could possibly be the demise of the plan and switched it with the one in his scabbard.

Gently shutting the door behind him, he looked to the empty road.

_Let’s get this show on the road._

Kessler motioned for the Orlesians to get to work. The elf, with nimble and deft fingers opened his cell and immediately went to work on the Viper’s door.

Not surprisingly, the Viper’s spoke excitedly in forced whispers and became uncharacteristically cooperative.

“Head north,” he heard the elf instructed to them.

Not paying attention to commotion behind him, he kneeled, dropped his glove, reached into his pocket and clicked together his flint. His magic demanded more, causing him to shudder and his mouth turn pasty. The spark ignited a short piece of tinder that he pulled from his sleeve. After the fuse lit, he ran behind the cell, his magic tightening his chest, desperate for release.   

Through the scrublands he ran at full speed, hearing the whoosh, splintering wood and the crackling fire. It was not a particularly powerful device, but enough to set the old farmhouse aflame. This was not intended to be a massacre, although one Seeker had to be sacrificed in the name of his plan.

_Wherever I go, things just end up blowing up._

As the sun started to break over the horizon, Kessler smiled. Without even looking behind him, he knew the Orlesians were hot on his trail.

He had the sword. 


	19. Nuraya

“My lady, His Majesty wishes to breakfast with you and his guests this morning.” Mol said, as Nuraya pulled on her robe.

 “Please send the King my regards, but I have more pressing commitments this morning.” She was in a hurry and her thoughts distracted. The implications of her answer had not occurred to her.

Mol’s response came as a stunned look. Apparently, there were few who turned down the King’s invitation and fewer who claimed to have appointments that outranked a royal summons. This amused Nuraya, but besides her intentional insolence, Connor could not wait. All through the night, as she tossed and turned in her sinfully comfortable bed, she regretted allowing him to stay at Warden Headquarters. What if he escaped, or worse, conjured a demon? As she laced her boots, Mol hovered, trying to inject her assistance, but Nuraya, as always, politely refused.

As she started down the hallway with a determined spring in her step, Mol chased after her. “Excuse me ma’am? What shall I tell the King?” 

“I have an early meeting with Seeker Herzog. I think he has forgotten that from yesterday’s council meeting.” Nuraya turned toward the grand staircase, and thought better of leaving the servant with an abrupt response. “Tell him that I shall meet with him this evening… and send my regrets.”

Mol nodded and curtsied, satisfied with her response. Nuraya expected to collapse from exhaustion by tea time as she mentally took account of her appointments that day. So much had happened yesterday that she had little time to process the implications, and was looking forward to a quiet moment with a stiff drink and a roaring fire so she could just think. Nuraya found herself in the centre of a plot to hide Prince Brandel’s magic, Alistair learned that his mother was an elven mage, Anders was responsible for the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry and Connor escaped the tower using shape-shifting and blood magic. It occurred to her that her reluctance to leave Dungarven was not just instinctual; it was prophetic.

By the time she reached the palace courtyard, her pace had taken on a hint of frustration. From behind, she heard her shadow, in the form of armored boots on cobblestone.

She sighed and tipped her head up. “Better keep up, Ser Desmond. I am in no mood for the King’s foolish insistence that I am to have an armed escort.”

The foot falls paused, and Nuraya stopped long enough for the gatekeeper to grant her exit. With the groan and squelch of iron, the gate opened and Nuraya scurried through. She hastened her steps and headed through the sleepy Denerim streets, towards Warden Headquarters. 

A thin fog drifted above the main road from the palace, giving an ethereal, almost haunting quality to the stone and timber dwellings that lined it. A massive work horse snorted noisily, exhaling his ghostly breath into the still morning air. Too stubborn to turn to see how far behind Ser Desmond lagged, she darted down a lesser-known alley, deciding to keep him on his toes. He knew where headquarters was, should he lose sight of her. She was in the mood to try.

The clash of weapons echoed from the yard, and a young recruit was chopping wood, already working up a sweat despite the fog. He embedded his axe into a large stump and mopped his brow with a forearm when Nuraya approached the front door. 

“Well met. You must be the new recruit the Commander spoke to me about. I’m Bryden, I can take you to Senior Warden Theirin.”

Nuraya smiled wryly. How long had it been since she had taken her joining at Ostagar? She recalled the first Darkspawn that attacked her in the wilds, and how Alistair managed to behead it, as she gathered her wits and courage. How long ago that seemed, when the world was at the edge of doom and when she had nothing but her magic and a naïve faith that the world would accept mages into open society. How far she had come, and how everything had changed.

 “Warden Amell, well met, Bryden.”

He stepped back and flushed, bowing deeply. “A thousand apologies. The Commander did not mention that you were expected so early.” He stuttered on, trying to make amends for his faux-pas.

Before the young recruit embarrassed himself any further, Ser Desmond quietly arrived, and stood a few paces away, breathless and with a slight expression of annoyance.

“Why don’t you take Ser Desmond here and see about his breakfast.” Nuraya said.

Nuraya wandered through the headquarters, avoiding eye contact with the Archdemon that stared so coldly at her. Every time she looked into its unseeing eyes, the horror of her recurrent nightmares resurfaced. Her memory of them was as clear as if she had been dreaming moments ago, and sent a sickening shiver through her. She made her way to the kitchen.

“Bless my ladle, if it isn’t Nuraya again. Come…come…fresh biscuits and tea!” Tarben declared. Anora sat at the end of a bench, pursed her lips in derision and avoided eye contact. Nuraya, not put off by her demeanour, pulled up a chair nearest hers, after she accepted Tarben’s offering.

“Good morning…” Nuraya paused and wanted to call her ‘sister’, no longer willing ignore their connection. It was too early in the morning to rankle the Warden, so she used her name, “Anora.”

Anora’s face remained in a partial scowl. “Good morning.”

“My thanks for keeping Markus safe. I hope he wasn’t much trouble last night.”

The former queen was bent over her porridge, concentrating on consuming it with the former grace she had been accustomed. “Thank the Commander, it was his decision.” She wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “Tarben kept him busy scrubbing pots for most of the night. Doubt he had time to get into any trouble, which surprises me since he had come looking for you.”

Nuraya smiled and ignored the comment. Instead, she said, “I was hoping that if you had a bit of free time, we might head to the Gnawed some evening.” Every time Nuraya spoke with Anora, she extended the same invitation. Surely after five years, the ice would begin to melt. Sometimes Nuraya did not understand herself. Her desire to develop some semblance of a relationship with her sister always came unexpectedly, and she never felt dissuaded by her coldness.

In response, Anora groaned dismissively. “The Gnawed Noble Tavern. A place I would not be caught dead in.”

“Fine, the Silver Knight it is.”

Anora furrowed her brow. “I don’t drink.”

Nuraya decided not to press the invitation any further, understanding Anora’s rebuff, but not yet ready to give up. Surely, there was common ground to be found. Nuraya thought that recruiting her to the Wardens was enough of an olive branch. After all these years, Anora still harboured a strong resentment, thick as a Dwarven fortress. Nuraya was determined to find its weakest spot, and pull down the wall.

“And how goes recruitment and training?” Nuraya asked, after an awkward silence.

“Same old story. Some live, some die.”

Nuraya touched the top of Anora’s hand. “Anora. Let’s stop dancing around the issue. I mean you no disrespect. But is there something you’d like to discuss with me?” She had never tried directness before.

Anora pulled her hand away. “There is no issue… can’t a Warden breakfast in peace? Not all of us have to fawn over the great Hero’s return to Denerim.”

“You have no idea how much I appreciate that gesture.” Nuraya pulled another friendly smile, hoping.

Anora sipped a tin cup of tea silently. After another long moment, she looked at Nuraya coldly. “If you don’t mind, I would appreciate if we kept things… professional between us.”

Nuraya pushed her half eaten plate of food to the centre of the table, and stood. “Very well, Warden.” She hoped her tone did not seep with sarcasm. She did not intend it, as she attempted to mask her hurt. “Where is the boy? I’ve come to collect him.”

“West end of the barracks,” Anora replied matter-of-factly.

Nuraya tried not to let Anora’s attitude wound her. She expected her response, but decided to keep trying. After all, it was persistence that got her through the Blight.

She wandered at the perimeter of the yard, hoping not to disturb the new recruits practicing their sword play. Oghren was berating each and every one of them.

“You’re nothing but a piece of Darkspawn candy! Pull up that shoulder of yours! You need better balance than that… oh come on! You call that a swing? Any self-respecting Genlock will take a moment to laugh in your face afore he removes your sodding head!”

Meanwhile, in a quieter corner of the training yard, Nathaniel was giving a less harried archery lesson, and Nuraya had to wonder whether those who gripped their blades regretted their choice.

Connor sat on a bench beside the barrack doors, looking pale and absentmindedly rubbed his palm. He watched her approach, not sure how to react. Nuraya was more disappointed than angry, but she did not want to let him know. It wasn’t the escape that raised her ire; it was the blood magic.

Of all mages, it had to be Connor. So many in Redcliffe would have seen him dead after his possession. Nuraya stood up for him and dragged him, kicking and screaming, from the bowels of the Fade. Now what would Eamon think? Would he regret what she had done? Should the Chantry ever learn about this, it would give them extra fodder to execute even a suspected malificar. She proved that some could be saved. Her anger flared as she thought more on the situation. Connor must have read her expression and remained quiet.

“Come. I have found a place for you to stay until I can come up with a better plan.”

“Where?” Connor asked. She shot him a narrow look.

“I suggest you follow me. Have you any belongings?”

Connor shook his head. She held open the back gate for him and noticed Ser Desmond slinking toward them.

“Hurry, Ser Desmond, or you’ll never find us. We’re heading to the east end of town.”

“My Lady, that is no place for a woman or a young lad.”

As she latched the gate, she capitulated to Ser Desmond’s presence. “Markus,” she said pointedly, “this is Ser Desmond. His Majesty appointed him as my personal guard during my stay in Denerim.” She hoped that Connor understood the implications. Should the guard learn of Connor’s identity, the news would no doubt, travel swiftly to Lord Eamon. 

“Well met, young Markus.”

It had just occurred to Nuraya that an explanation was in order for Ser Desmond. While the King, or worse, the Lord Chamberlain, would most likely not question him about his activities with Nuraya during the day, she needed a cover story, just in case. If she had learned anything during her short stay in the city, it was to expect the worst.

“An old friend of mine from the days of the Blight lives there. He owes me a favor, and I thought I could prevail upon him to spare Markus a bed until I can arrange passage for him back to Dungarven.”

“Yes, to Dungarven.” Connor parroted. She shot him a look as if to say _not another word out of you._

“Lead the way then. Let us hope that the rumours from the east end are unfounded.” He gripped his pommel nervously.

_More trouble in Denerim. How marvellously wonderful_. “Rumours, Ser Desmond?”

“Aye, folk speak of a gang of malificar that roam the streets, taking innocent women and children and sacrificing them in the name of a demonic host in subterranean warrens.”

“Surely, this is shop mistress gossip, Ser Desmond. Does the City Guard not keep vigil? I imagine the templars maintain a close eye on the situation.”

As they wove through the back alleys, heading eastward deeper into the maze of streets, Ser Desmond replied, “Let us pray then, that you are right. Gossip is one thing, but stories that are oft repeated tend to cause me great concern.”

 ~0oOo0~

The door at the end of the alley seemed out of place. By the time they had snaked through the dark alleys on the city’s east end, the sun had burned off the fog. Despite the sun’s warm promise, the door at the end of an otherwise empty lane was shrouded in shadow. A faint lyrium mist in the air hung in the air, glistening when the light hit it at certain angle. Nuraya ignored it, not wanting to startle the impressionable Ser Desmond. Apparently, his work with guard did not involve dealings with the Collective.

Whether Connor sensed the aura, she could not tell. The door was well-constructed and solid, unlike its clapboard neighbours. Its elaborate hinges, scrolled across the shiny black paint, branching and curling in flamboyant designs. In the centre was an onyx door knocker; a crouching imp that grinned mischievously back at Nuraya. It did not have a knob or any other similar apparatus that allowed visitors to gain entrance. It was unmistakable that magic was at work here, and so clever that only mages had the ability to spot the difference.

“Ser Desmond, does this door seem out of place to you?”

“No m’lady. Looks perfectly ordinary to me. Why?”

She shot Connor a look and his silent response told her that he saw the same thing.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Ser Desmond asked nervously.

“Andraste’s ashes, Desmond, let’s not forget that I didn’t ask you to accompany me here.”

She pointed to a crate alongside of the wall, and a broken storage vase that contained the remnants of a fire.

“Sit there, and call out if you get scared. I shan’t be long.”

Not comfortable resting on the job, the guard took to pacing the alleyway.

Nuraya lifted the door knocker and gave it a solid rap. Connor grabbed her sleeve. “Uh…Warden Amell…”

She appreciated his attempt at respect, although it did not erase his latest misdeeds. “Relax. Old friend of mine. Nothing to fear.” 

There was no answer. After a series of knocks, she was about to give up hope, believing that the resident preferred to sleep during the day. Perhaps Ser Desmond might be able to watch Connor while she met with Seeker Herzog. Returning to this out of the way alley later that day would be a great inconvenience.

With a snap, the peephole opened and a rheumy eye strained in the sunlight, followed by a distant, discontented curse.

“Sorry to wake you, but I have another favor to ask of the Collective.”

Without warning, the door swung open with unnatural silence. Nuraya urged Connor inside and stepped into the dimly lit hovel.

“Kalvindir! So good to see you, friend!”  Nuraya offered a warm hug to the portly mage with the odd gait, who limped as if one leg was longer than the other.

He returned the gesture with equal sentiment, patting her on the back with his meaty hands.

“So many years! But the birds, the birds they tell me just yesterday that you are in city! I am very much surprised that you find me so soon. How can Denerim Mage Collective be of service?” Nuraya never forgot his thick accent, and even after all these years, never learned where Kalvindir was from.

He pointed to a number of stools in front of his cold fireplace and invited his guests to sit. Bottles of strange liquids of all hue and consistencies lined the walls of the cramped room. The larger jars harboured floating creatures, some with double heads or a single milky eye. 

He shuffled through his quarters to retrieve his pipe before settling down. Nuraya courteously ignited the tip of her finger and held it to the bowl until Kalvindir was able to inhale satisfactorily.

“I am hesitant in approaching the Collective, but I find myself in a bit of a bind. This is Markus…”

“Markus Sparrow.” Connor offered, looking pale as his eyes darted from one jar to another.

Kalvindir nodded and continued to listen.

“Markus here is a wanted apostate. I want to hide him here until I can safely get him out of Ferelden.”

“Ferelden eh? A leetle bit young to be wanted by Chantry, no?”

Connor was about to open his mouth, but Nuraya held up her hand and furrowed her brow at him, as if to say, _not another word._

“Markus is a special case. His family and I go back many years. They know that he has escaped the Circle, but are not yet aware that he has ended up in Denerim. Would you be willing to take him under your wing, just for a short time, and I will compensate the Collective handsomely in return.”

“Hide apostates is specialty of Kalvindir!” With the mouthpiece of his pipe, he pointed at Connor. “What talent? What type magic can you doing?”

Nuraya nodded at Connor, granting him permission to speak. “Healing. Weak fire spells.”

“And…” Nuraya prompted.

“…and shape shifting…”

“Oh? This a rare spell, no? What shape you do? Yes?”

Connor blushed. “A small bird, Ser…Kalvindir Ser.”

The mage guffawed, allowing his ample mid-section to jiggle as he gritted the pipe in his teeth and slapped his knee. His accent came out in full force. “Leetle bird you say? This is favorite of Kalvindir!” He pulled out his pipe and blew a complicated whistle. The only window in his room, high atop the gable, was open. Four small thrushes fluttered down and landed on his shoulder. Nuraya smiled, tempted to have him tutor her in the art of bird whispering.

“Kalvindir is friend to all small creatures with feather and wing.”

Nuraya turned to Connor. “That is not everything. Tell him, Markus.”

Connor frowned and rubbed his palm. He held up the scar for Kalvindir to inspect.

The room went silent.   

“Blood magic. Ah. Kalvindir now understand why Nuraya comes to Mages Collective. This is very serious leetle Markus. You must trust in the birds, and stay very much far from the blood. No good will come. No good at all.” He wagged his finger in front of Connor’s face, like a schoolmarm.

He stood up and patted Connor on the head. “Leetle Markus will stay here. I teach him better healing and how to speak with bird. When you, Nuraya, make a plan for him, the Collective will help get him there safely.”

“I will visit daily. Whatever you need, Kalvindir, just ask. I am greatly indebted.”

The old mage waved a hand casually. “You ended Blight, no? I live because of you. Kalvindir will be happy to help leetle Markus with good magic.”

~0oOo0~

When Nuraya returned to Warden Headquarters, Seeker Herzog had already grown impatient. Commander Rastignac ushered her into his office with an outstretched arn, and she was grateful that the meeting would only include the three of them; council meetings gave her a head ache. The Warden Commander shut the door and Nuraya took a seat beside the Seeker, in front of his great wooden desk. In an attempt to forge stronger ties with Ferelden, Rastignac had amassed a collection of mabari figurines that decorated every surface of his office. Nuraya thought that his habit almost bordered on the obsessive as she marvelled at the sheer quantity, not to mention the great variety of these small objects. Had she another, less stressful meeting, she hoped to examine them more closely and hear his stories about them. For the time being, she sat upright and kept her hands folded on her lap, waiting for the meeting to begin.

“Seeker Herzog let me remind you that this is a conversation and not an interrogation. Nuraya has done nothing wrong.”

The Seeker, in his impeccable black leathers, leaned into his chair and crossed his legs. Nuraya guessed from his mannerisms, that he was a man that always got what he wanted.

“I am working under Cassandra Pentaghast’s command. She is currently tracking down leads in the Nessum region, looking for Anders’s last known associate.”

Commander Rastignac wove his fingers together. “The Pentaghasts are a well-respected Nevarran family—long line of dragon hunters. Should have been a Warden if you ask me, but I digress. Have the templars’s heard any rumours of where this mage may have fled?”

Herzog shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “The Kirkwall templars have been less than… cooperative. The Divine has explicitly handed over sole authority of this investigation to the Seekers. I know not why the Knight-Commander and Ser Hawke have involved themselves, or why they were present at Council.”

_Interesting. A Chantry divided._

The Seeker continued.  It was apparent that he liked to hear himself talk. “So, I appreciate if you limit what you tell the Kirkwall faction. They are not in any way, involved with our investigation.”

“Surely, Seeker, you cannot govern with whom I am to speak. But you need not worry. I’m not in the habit of collaborating with the Chantry. That much should at least be clear to you.” Nuraya said.

Herzog cleared his throat. “Yes… of course. And since we are now on the topic of apostates…”

“Watch yourself, Seeker, Nuraya is not an apostate—an exception to the rule to be sure—but she breaks no rules sitting here with you today.”

Ignoring Rastignac’s statement, Herzog continued and spoke directly at Nuraya. “So, if you don’t mind, tell me how you came to know this mage… Anders.”

“I don’t mind at all. The templars took me from my home when I was a girl of ten. Anders was already there.”

“And what sort of mage was he?”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that. Certainly, he was typical of all teenage boys locked in the Circle. He was rebellious. I would not call him malicious. He escaped a number of times. Each time he grew more clever.”

“Had you ever escaped from the Circle?”

The Warden Commander pounded his fist on the desk. Not violently, but enough to express that his tolerance had worn thin.

“Need I remind you again, Herzog, this is not about Amell.”

“Apologies,” he said in a shallow tone.

Nuraya interrupted before he asked another question. “If you wish to ask me if I had ever aided him in his escapes, the answer is absolutely not. He did find me on the eve of the Blight in Denerim, however.”

“Indeed?”

“I sent him to Amaranthine.”

“And why to Amaranthine?”

Nuraya was emboldened, enjoying this game of cat and mouse. “With Denerim on the brink of a Darkspawn invasion, you might appreciate that the situation was… chaotic at best. There was nothing that could be done with regard to his escape, so I sent him north, where a lone mage would best find a chance for survival.”

“Where he slaughtered a unit of templars before you conscripted him into the Wardens!”

Rastignac had completely lost patience, but she countered, unfazed. “And I stand by my decision, Seeker. Anders was an asset to my team and to the Wardens. I am sure the Warden Commander here has informed you that the Architect is no longer a threat to Thedas—and that includes the Chantry, ser. Wardens call upon the willing and able to rise and protect these lands from the scourge of the Darkspawn. I harbour no shame for who I recruit.”

“But what concerns me is your ability, or lack thereof, to control your members. I would not be sitting here right now if you kept a certain member of your Order in check.”

Whether the Seeker had developed a negative opinion about her, or if he mistrusted her because she was a mage, Nuraya could not tell. He did have a point, although she was not about to admit it. He was also too wrapped up in his own sentiments to ask the right questions, which she felt was odd, given that he was a master interrogator. His voice lowered, to an almost inaudible pitch. It immediately softened the tensions in the room.

“So tell me, how did you and Anders part?”

“I stayed in Denerim with Oghren and Nathaniel Howe, to oversee the repair of the city and the rebuilding of Vigil’s Keep. Once the work was underway and it was apparent that the Wardens could be better used elsewhere, Anders left for Kirkwall.”

This was not entirely true of course, and she had encouraged him to go, after hearing the rumours of the Circle’s treatment of their mages. She wanted an ear to the ground, so to speak, and Anders was a natural choice. It was the detail about Justice she did not feel comfortable admitting, but decided that it would eventually come to light. She saw no reason to give Seeker Herzog further reason to mistrust the mages.

“Anders and I did not exactly leave on the best of terms, Seeker Herzog. We fundamentally disagreed on a significant point.”

“A disagreement? About?”

“One of my Amaranthine Wardens was… unusual. He was a Fade spirit, inhabiting the body of a former Grey Warden. And if you can imagine, corpses have a habit of… decomposing.” She wrinkled her nose when she thought of the final days she had spent with Justice. She came to treat him as a full member of the team, often forgetting that the spirit was merely borrowing the flesh. Eventually, the situation became so unbearable that Nuraya had started discussions with Justice to return to the Fade. He and Anders, however, were having conversations of their own.

“Anders suggested that he become Justice’s next host. I strictly forbade it. I believe there is only room in the body and mind for one soul. Shortly thereafter, and unbeknownst to me, he merged with Justice and fled for Kirkwall. By the time I learned of what happened, he was long gone. Before I handed command over to Rastignac, I sent word to the Wardens in the Free Marches to go to Kirkwall and report back on his whereabouts.”

“And what did they report?”

“I had not heard word for almost two years. Anders wrote me himself. He mentioned he was helping out a man called Hawke… the brother of the Templar we met yesterday. The Qunari were threatening to incite rebellion and Knight-Commander Meredith exercised little restraint with regard to the Circle mages. He wrote regularly and from what I gathered, abuses continued…”

“In these letters, did Anders mention anything with regard to his plans with the Chantry?”

“He mentioned vague plans that involved justice for the mages, but nothing of the Chantry. He also said that he had enlisted Hawke’s assistance. He was not specific. I thought he was going to expose the Knight-Commander’s reckless abuse of power. At worst, I thought he and this Hawke character were capable of assassinating her.”

“Would you mind if I took a look at your correspondence with him?”

“Burned… every last one of them. Anders is still considered an apostate after all. And so was his companion. After all, I am still a mage and sensitive about these things.”

Herzog was disappointed, but continued without comment. “And that is, to the best of your knowledge, everything you know about Anders?”

“That is all.”

He stood, shook her hand, and looked at her, with a glance that she tentatively accepted as sincerity. “I greatly appreciate your cooperation. This information is most helpful. We did not know of his involvement with demons.”

“Demons? It was no demon. It was a spirit of Justice.” Nuraya responded, her patience now wearing thin at the Seeker’s presumptions.

“Does it make any sense to you that such a spirit would kill innocents?” Herzog replied.

“It does make me wonder. What plans have the Chantry for Anders, if he is apprehended?”  She guessed that the Chantry had plans to execute Anders in centre of Val Royeaux.

Seeker Herzog pushed his gloves between his fingers, and turned toward Rastignac, the corner of his mouth slightly turned up. “That is an interesting question, Amell. Commander Rastignac, on this note, the Divine has sent me to Denerim to make an interesting proposition for you and the Ferelden Wardens.”

 


	20. Saunière

Under the starry sky in the heart of the canyon lands, his feet pounded the dry ground, through the tussock, barely keeping stride. Thorny shrubs tangled between his boots and rocks tried to trip him as he stumbled past, but Saunière kept his eyes locked ahead, determined to keep moving. His demands far outweighed what his aged body could handle, but he tried nonetheless, to keep up with Tassilo. Even after the snap of burning wood and the whiff of seared thatch drifted into the night air, he was too panicked to turn around to see whether the outpost or the Seekers inside had survived the blast.

_Keep running. Just keep running. I know you want to stop and catch your breath. You just have to keep running._

It didn’t help that it felt as if a blacksmith’s striker was working both of his knees. As his legs threatened to seize and his jaw rattled with each pounding foot fall, he took to repeating a verse under his breath, to keep his mind from succumbing to the unrelenting scream of pain:

_O Maker, hear my cry:_

_Guide me through the blackest nights_

_Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked_

_Make me to rest in the warmest places._

 

While the meditation succeeded in wrenching his thoughts from the possibility of collapsing upon the rugged terrain, the irony of what kept him moving struck him like a cold blast of winter air, sending an uneasy chill down his spine. It was the first verse he had ever committed to memory, at the behest of Sister Ursanne, a litany tutor at the Ghislain Chantry.

_How deep it has wormed into my brain. What other entreaties are buried within my being?_

Despite the source, this verse was special to Saunière. When he saw the ancient calligraphy for the first time, he hungered for more: his eyes devoured each inked loop and his mind thirsted to connect the Old Orlesian verbs with ancient Tevinter spelling. Of course Sister Ursanne obliged the young Saunière, but little did she know what obsession she was feeding. Even as a boy of nine, he was able to divorce the meaning from the words.  And tonight, as his parched mouth begged for water and his crooked back throbbed in agony, the popular passage from Transfigurations offered him no spiritual respite. It was merely a means to keep his legs moving. There was no Maker to guide him through this blackened night—only his will and determination to remain upright and mobile. 

On and on through the night he tripped and stumbled, keeping up with his much fitter companion, still tailing the stranger in the Seeker armor. His mouth, now gaping open, was dry and parched as the dead grass they sprinted through. His lungs begged and burned for reprieve. When every attempt to push onward failed, he leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees to allow his breathing a moment to catch up. Drenched in sweat and shaking, it was sheer stubbornness that prevented him from collapsing.

“Come _professeur_! We cannot stop here!” Tassilo called out.

The strange guard jogged over, reaching into his hip kit. “Here, drink this. It’ll give you a bit of a boost.”

Saunière took the vial, gave it a sniff and handed it back. It was some brew that the folk –alchemists concocted. It smelled earthy and green, and altogether unappetizing.  “I’m quite fine…” he gasped, wiping the sweat from his brow.

To the professor’s satisfaction, Tassilo also appeared out of breath, but he looked more invigorated than exhausted. One of his eyes, still swollen and bruised, reminded him of what they were running from. Despite his lassitude, he was pleased that his assistant knew better than to offer his help. His verbal encouragements were humiliating enough.

“Now is not the time for wounded pride, _professeur_.”

Saunière was too tired to argue further and reluctantly drank the tonic. Despite his stubbornness, he found himself wishing for more, as it barely quenched his thirst. As the beverage’s effects took hold, he started walking, in hopes of regaining some of his long-spent momentum. Breathlessly, he turned and blocked the guard’s path, glowering.

“Who in the Divine are you?” There would be no more running until that question was answered. He had a hunch and wanted to end the intrigue.

The guard lifted his visor. Even in the dark, there was no mistaking those eyes.

“Arlen Greer.” Saunière stated, feeling slightly smug knowing that he was right. He momentarily allowed the implications of being tangled in a mess with Greer and the Seekers to bounce inside his head, knowing that this was not the time or the place to deconstruct the bigger picture. 

Greer stuck two fingers in his mouth to produce a sharp whistle. A mabari came bounding from the grass, with its tongue lolling between its teeth.

“The one and only gentlemen. Come! We need to cover more ground before dawn. I hope my little light show in the courtyard afforded us a few hours lead time.”

“Why bother, Greer? Why stick your neck out for two Orlesian scholars?”

Greer shrugged. “I saw the Seeker force you into the back of the wagon. Felt a little bad about it.”

Saunière arched an eyebrow. “So you decided to impersonate a Seeker and burn down their compound as a simple act of charity? I’m offended that you think that I would fall for such tripe.”

“What can I say then? I was bored.”

He dropped the issue, deciding to figure out Greer’s role another time. “My sword, if you please.” His trembling hand waited for its return.

Greer locked his hand on the pommel in response. “Let me bear it for you, old man.”

Before he could bark his quarrel, Greer was gone into the night. Although the pain in his knees was almost impossible to ignore, he ran and his chant gradually turned into a curse. 

~0oOo0~

Saunière spent most of the early morning walking, not caring if the Seekers were nipping on his tail. Surely, if this were the case, they would have already caught up with him. Part of him wouldn’t have minded a return wagon ride, a nice bed of straw for sleeping and perhaps a free meal.  A small part of him hoped that both Tassilo and Greer had lost him, leaving him to search out this key on his own. He worked best when he was alone and was precisely the reason he insisted on having an office in a little used tower at the university. This distant hope was foiled when a sniffing mabari circled him tentatively.

“Don’t tell me you’ve come to hurry me up,” he said to the dog. In response, the hound perked its ears and sniffed the air, letting out a soft woof.

“Or have you come to chew my bones after I have perished from exhaustion?” The dog cocked his head as if he were slightly offended at the thought.

Limping forward, he held out his hand. The dog wandered over and sniffed it, looking up at him. They stared at each other for a moment, communicating nothing in particular, although Saunière knew that in a split second or with the wrong sort of look, the hound could pounce and tear him open. Quietly, the dog turned and trotted over the top of a knoll and disappeared. Saunière took his cue and followed.

On the other side of the slope, Greer and Tassilo were perched at the edge of a cliff overlooking the river basin below, pointing to the various features of the vista before them. The mabari dashed for his master, his stump of a tail wagging as Greer scratched him behind the ears.

When Tassilo noticed Saunière’s return, he stood and brushed off the loose grass from his bottom. “I knew you were not far behind.”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous, Tassilo. I can see that you were watching for the circling vultures.”

Greer offered him a water skin and Saunière finished the contents without guilt. He did not know if his bones would allow him to bend and settle into the grass. A warm breeze cooled his overheated body, and he leaned against a large rock that jutted near the cliff.

The man, still disguised in the Seeker uniform, continued his conversation with Tassilo. “To the east you can see Trevis. Not a long hike, couple hours at the most.” He traced his finger along the ridge that separated them from the valley below. “We can follow the canyon. Surely there is a pass that will lead us down to the valley. We can rest and resupply there and make for Nevarra City in a few days.”

“Have you any coin? Everything we own was confiscated.” Tassilo asked, rubbing the top of his head as he scanned the rolling valley. Dark stubble on his head was filling in on the once-smooth surface, a sure sign that he was too far from civilization to attend to his preening.

“Not even a copper. I was left with nothing after paying my debts at the Wounded Axe.”

Saunière remained quiet and eyed the river that meandered through the settlement that crowded both sides of its’ banks. About a fortnight past, he and Tassilo had spent the night at an upscale inn in Trevis on their way to Tylus Canyon. The quaint village was a popular destination for Grand Cathedral clergy in search of respite and was famous for its mineral baths. Where this was a destination for the affluent, he doubted that whatever coin they might be able to beg or steal would buy them anything more than a pile of day-old manure at the stables. He wished he had had the foresight to leave a cache of spare coin and clothes with the inn keep at the Drachenhaus.  

Saunière watched smoke curl from chimneys of the great stone mansions that settled on both banks of the Minanter. When his eye caught the peak of the chantry spire, he grew uneasy, knowing that _she_ lived only a few streets away.  

“Trevis isn’t exactly hospitable to a group of rag-tag men on the run. We’ll certainly look out of place… you Ser will most definitely need a change of clothing, if you don’t want to draw attention from the Chantry. We’ll need money to fit in, without question.” Saunière said.

Greer looked down at the embroidered eye and chuckled. “Course, there is this sword. It should fetch a handsome price.”

“You will do no such thing! I suggest you give it back to me now. I appreciate your efforts in retrieving it and carrying it for me thus far. Name your reward and once I return to Val Royeaux, I shall have a messenger send it immediately.”

“Easy there, old man. You know, I might demand it as payment for getting you out of your… situation… with the Seekers.” The corner of Greer’s mouth twisted up in an impish grin. Saunière did not like the look in his eye either; it was too mischievous for his liking.

“That sword has been in my family for over seven generations! There is no swordmaster between here and Val Royeaux that would be able to afford it. It will not be sold for a handful of silver so we can dine on cheap fare at a brothel! Besides, I did not ask for your assistance. That is not the way business works, Ser Greer.”

Greer smiled smugly and held up the finely crafted weapon and studied the pommel. “This is a lovely weapon, I will admit.” With his other hand, he scratched the stubble on his chin. “Good crafting. Double fuller… what’s on the grip… dragon hide?”

“Wyvern.”

“Right… how Orlesian.” He flicked the pommel with a finger and furrowed his brow inquisitively when the sound was not as he expected. “Interesting.”

“I will not stand here and play schoolyard games with you!” Saunière hollered, his face burning with anger beneath his veneer of perspiration.

Tassilo laid a hand on Greer’s shoulders. “Let us not rile the _Professeur_. Surely we can come to some sort of understanding with regard to _Wyven de Fleau._ What is it that you require? Money?”

“Actually,” Greer said, slipping the sword cleanly back into the scabbard, “would you consider a trade?”  He remained sitting in the grass, knees bent and resting his forearms on top, weaving his fingers together.

“I highly doubt we have anything worth your effort,” Saunière sneered, wishing he still had his pipe. He hated appearing unhinged; smoking was always his best deflection.

“Don’t sell yourself short, old man.”

“I suggest if you wish to engage in any sort of productive barter that you start by calling me _Professeur_.” 

“Oh come now. I thought we were on a first name basis here.”

“Fine. Saunière.”

“Okay, Sawn-ee-air…” The sound of mispronounced Orlesian came like the sound of a dying pig.

“My mother called me Bérenger,” he capitulated.

“Ber! Ber, my man. Now that we have that out of the way… I have a proposition for you.” Greer stood and paced, arms crossed and looking like the cat that had swallowed a mouse.

Saunière continued to scowl, and reluctantly entered into negotiation. “Very well. Name your price.”

“Price? Who said anything about money? I overheard you at the Wounded Axe… that you are seeking a certain Ferelden hero. And as luck, coincidence, or divine intervention would have it… so am I. You take me to her and I will return the sword. Simple as that; no further questions asked or required.”

Saunière rubbed his chin and considered the suggestion. He did not want to let his physical exhaustion cloud his judgement.

“I would say that is a fair bargain, _mon  professeur_.” Tassilo said. “Let’s not forget that he is also proficient at getting out of a pinch…”

“Why not find her yourself? Why travel with us?”

Greer shrugged. “I’m bored and lonely. You two are just the sort to keep me on my toes… maybe I will even learn something… _Professeur Saunière_.” His pronunciation of Orlesian suddenly improved.

“And why are you so interested in finding this woman?” Saunière asked.

“We have a mutual friend… who is in trouble. She might know of his whereabouts. And how about you? Odd that two Orlesians are willing to run to the ends of the continent to speak with a Fereldan mage.”

Greer was asking too many questions. “How about you carry my sword and follow us quietly?” Saunière snapped.

“I am more than happy to abide by that arrangement.”

Saunière closed his eyes, ignoring the world around him, enjoying the breeze whip past his face. Greer was a sellsword, no doubt on the run from Maker-knows-what authority. He had an inkling that the Seekers were also after him as well. Could he be trusted with this secret that he bore? Greer did not seem to have the intellectual prowess to care much for the greater issues plaguing Thedas. He certainly did not seem to be the sort to concern himself over the nature of Andraste or the Chantry’s theological underpinnings. He seemed rather… simple. Of course, Saunière was not one for jumping to conclusions and decided to keep an open mind. There was something fishy about Greer, and decided that it would be best to get to the bottom of his suspicions when he was in a little less danger.  

“Professeur?”

Greer and Tassilo were looking at him.

“I’m thinking.”

“Professeur. We could go see _her_ …”

Saunière grunted, afraid that Tassilo might bring her up.

His assistant shrugged, clearly at his wits end. “It’s not as if we have much choice. What are we going to do? Take up pickpocketing?”

“That is not a terrible idea. But considering that it is in our best interest to not rouse attention from any authority figure, we do not have very many options.” Saunière stood, resigned to Tassilo’s suggestion. _She_ was his only connection in the area… even if he had not seen her in years. “Very well.” He sighed in displeasure. “Given that I am the only one who has contacts in the fair village of Trevis, I suppose that I must be prevailed upon to use them.”

“I am sure she will give you aid, _professeur_.”

“Well come on then, we’ve not got all day. And where are we going?” Greer said, anxious to be on his way.

“To see Sister Tereza. We go back decades… She’s the local Chantry’s archivist.”

Greer stopped. “Andraste’s tits… you can’t be serious.”

   ~0oOo0~

They lingered on the outskirts of town until nightfall, resting on the banks of the Minanter, enjoying the sunshine and the brief respite. Greer must have been tired and dozed on and off throughout the day, beside his hound. On more than one occasion, Saunière tip-toed near to see if it were possible to quietly slip the sword from the scabbard and run, only to have the dog’s eyes follow him closely. He did not dare to venture close, afraid that it would erupt in howls and barks that would do more than just wake Greer from his nap.

At nightfall, Tassilo donated a leather vest so Greer could camouflage his breastplate.  With a little river mud and gravel, the armour looked sufficiently worn and ragged. For as much as Tassilo preferred keeping his fingernails trimmed and clean, he seemed to be quite enthralled in helping Greer with this task. Saunière supposed in another life, Tassilo might have run away and joined the theatre.

Unlike the last time they had spent in Trevis, Saunière felt as conspicuous as an ogre in a phylactery chamber. Even though he hated how other scholars fawned and preened themselves, he did have a dinner coat that he would often throw on when in the company of his peers. Of course, standing beside the ever-impeccable Tassilo was usually enough dressing for the evening. But on this evening, he felt like a wanted man, and smelled even worse. He had become the target for every wealthy snob to wrinkle their noses and glare condescendingly, as if the muddy armour had been covered in dung. Had Saunière been in any other situation, he might have spoken out and offered his most clever of Orlesian insults.

“Please don’t tell me we’re going right inside the Chantry…” Greer muttered, slouching, as if his posture would somehow deflect attention from him.

Of course, there was no one more self-conscious than Tassilo. He should have preferred to wear an exquisite brocade cloak and velvet hat. Instead, he looked as if he had been held in a cell and then punched in the eye. Saunière ducked down a side-street across from the Chantry.

“I suppose if you are so set in following me, you will have to trust me at some point in time,” Saunière said. “Or maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe I am leading you right into a trap! I could deliver you right to the Revered Mother herself…as I collect my reward… and my sword.”

“I had thought of that. Of course, if that was your plan, then you would not have been trying to sneak up on me all afternoon as I slept.”

Tassilo sniggered and then cleared this throat. “Do not worry Ser Greer, Sister Tereza is not an ordinary Chantry sister.”

Greer sighed deeply. “I was afraid that you would say that. I’ve met my fair share of out of the ordinary Chantry members… why can’t they just take their vows and meditate on the blessings of the Maker? It gets so messy when members of a religious order take up arms.”

“She’s not that sort of _out of the ordinary_ …” Saunière mumbled.

Affluent row houses lined the narrow street. Lanterns hung from iron poles and the glass-paned bow windows glowed comfortably, reminding Saunière of his district in Val Royeaux. He should be returning from a day researching on campus to a warm soup prepared by his cook, to settle before his fire with a book. All this adventuring was tiresome, he realized. 

A city-guardsman approached the travellers with suspicion. Saunière thought it was highly unlikely that thieves would use the main road and front door, and wondered what offence the guard was attempting to prevent.

“We’ve come to see Sister Tereza, we’re—”

“—not from around here…” the Guard finished, looking down with a condescending sneer. Saunière wondered if Trevisians felt this sense of superiority when they strolled down the grand avenues in Val Royeaux. This was no more than a country-stop over to most Orlesians—the locals were taking themselves far too seriously, he thought. The guard nodded and let them go without further question. Sister Tereza had no wealth to speak of anyway. The guard, in all likelihood, was paid to protect the wyvern hunters that had returned from the surrounding area for an evening of pampering. Saunière knew their game. The hunters tended to overindulge in the evenings as they celebrated their success (or near success) and were often so inebriated that they would fall prey to bandits. For a few extra silvers, the city guard could be convinced to keep an eye on a party of drunken nobles.  

A humble townhouse stood at the end of the street, cowering in the shadow of its neighbour’s grandeur. It was not a slum by any stretch and declared neither ostentation nor extravagance.  It was well cared for, and stout and practical in its décor. Saunière asked Greer and Tassilo to wait at the curb as he took the stone steps to the front door. Three dishevelled men at the door of an elderly chantry sister would surely be an intimidating sight. He pulled the rope bell and waited nervously.

He told her elven maid who was calling. In a sharp voice, she called down the hall.

“My lady! You have a visitor! It’s a Professeur Saunière.”

From the darkened hallway, he heard her voice. It had not changed, still sweet and firm. “Bérenger? Is that you?”

He had not seen her for many years. The last time, if his memory still served him correctly, was when he was early in his field research on Imperium history, and needed access to her archive for some background research. Every time he laid eyes upon her, his heart would skip a beat. This was precisely the reason that he often tried to avoid her. Their situation was complicated enough, and truly, if he were not as desperate as he was, he would not have preferred to be standing at her front door.

She placed both hands on his cheeks and searched the contours of his face with her fingers. Her grey hair lay loose around her shoulders, reminding him of a long ago time when she would let him unbraid it for her. Beneath the wrinkles and her faraway stare, he could still see the young woman who broke his heart.

“Bérenger! It is you! How long has it been?”

He took her hands away and cupped them, offering them a gentle kiss. “It has been far too long Sister. Tassilo, my assistant and…” Who was Greer to him anyway? “…and a gentlemen that rescued Tassilo and I from some nasty mercenaries.”

“Good evening, Sister.” Tassilo called out.

Her eyes continued to stare blankly, but her hand reached out. “Come, let me get a good look at you.” Tassilo complied and allowed her to delicately trace her fingertips over the top of his head and lightly over his face.

“I see that you’ve been in the wilds for some time, Tassilo.” She patted the top of his head and he laughed out loud.

“I apologize. I’ve not seen a proper wash basin in some weeks. I wish I could spare you from my current state.”

“Don’t be foolish lad, come, come in! It is cold tonight. Jillah, we shall be having guests tonight. Please prepare the spare rooms and tell Cook to reheat the lamb.”

As Tassilo and Saunière followed the maid into the townhouse, Sister Tereza paused and sniffed the air. “And you ser, you and your mabari are welcome. You must be anxious to clean up as well.” She paused and sniffed again.

“Sister, this is… Johan.” Saunière said. Perhaps it was best that the name Arlen Greer was kept out of Trevis. He figured he was safe for the night, but suspected that the Seekers would soon descend, if only to visit an inn and take in the pleasures of the village, before resuming their search.

“Johan. Welcome.”

Saunière took Sister Tereza’s arm in the crook of his and offered to guide her down the hallway, until she slapped his hand away. “Don’t be foolish Bérenger. I know these walls better than you.”

With unexpected grace she led them into a comfortable sitting room and found her seat. The room was plain and mostly utilitarian. Of course a blind woman would find no use for trinkets or portraits. Despite the austerity, it was a cozy space and for the first time in many weeks, Saunière felt safe.

“I suppose you are going to light that fetid pipe of yours,” Tereza said as she settled into her chair.

“Not if her ladyship will be offended. Besides, I seem to have misplaced it.”

“Jillah! Bring the good professor a pipe and some Rivaini tobacco… or do you prefer Antivan?”

“Whatever you have to offer will be more than sufficient.”

“So, tell me a story, Bérenger. What brings you to Trevis? I am surprised that you left your tower at all…”

A heaviness settled in his heart as he thought about lying to Tereza, as she was an honest and upright woman. He decided that he could live with telling a half-truth. He did not want to put her in any danger.

“Tassilo and I received an urgent message about a month past from Balthazar Duchamp. He and his team had gone missing about two moons past. Tassilo and I mounted a small expedition to search for them, which unfortunately was interrupted when a group of mercenaries attacked us … and Johan here came to our rescue. They managed to steal all our money… and that is the very condensed version of how we ended up at your door.” He was good at storytelling, and hoped that despite Tereza’s quick wits and sharp mind, that his tale would pass as truth.

“Duchamp passed through Trevis, oh, some weeks ago. He left me some documents to add to the archive.”

“Indeed? I would be most interested in taking a look at them more closely.”

“Of course you would, Berenger. Let’s just get the small talk out of the way before we bury our noses in research. So you have heard no word from Duchamp?”

Tassilo piped in, to complete the lie. “No word, Sister.”

Thinking of Duchamp and lying to Tereza made Saunière feel ill. Someday, he was no longer actively trying to avoid certain factions of the Chantry, he would return and tell her the full, uncensored story. It was only a matter of time before other scholars would want to hold some sort of memorial for Balthazar Duchamp.

“Well, it is quite obvious, that all three of you have not seen the inside of a washbasin in at least a week… the situation must be truly dire if you have resorted to knocking on my door, Bérenger.” She pursed her lips. “I cannot imagine what trouble you have found yourself in… but you are most welcome to rest and hide out… from whomever it is you are hiding…”

He hoped that she understood the reason for his lies. On top of not wanting to disclose the situation to Greer, he did not want to drag her any further into his current predicament with the Seekers. She always had a knack for being outspoken and would have interrogated him if she really felt the need to know every detail. Her last statement, in Saunière’s mind, was a quiet acknowledgement that she understood his need to be discreet.

 “And you… Johan…” Sister Tereza said. “Are you a Circle mage or just a run of the mill apostate?”  


	21. Connor

“See, Leetle Markus?” Kalvindir was crushing elfroot with a mortar and pestle and added a few drops of lyrium to the earthy pulp as he spoke. Connor bit his lip, trying to keep up with the procedure. He had watched the fat mage perform this tedious ritual twenty times over the past three days, but was unable to complete the process to Kalvindir’s satisfaction. Connor had arrived at a point where he no longer cared. Being a free mage in the Collective, he realized, involved an obscene amount of work and effort, which had very little pay-off. He had no new skills to speak of— just a number of blisters and calluses on his hands from the chores and labour Kalvindir insisted that he suffer through. He had been working since dawn and his tummy was begging for breakfast. The _Leetle Markus_ moniker was also becoming tiresome. 

“No, no, you crushing too hard… watch the Kalvindir.”

Connor grumbled under his breath and shook his hair from his eyes. With meaty fingers, Kalvindir gripped the smooth stone handle of the pestle and pushed the elfroot down the side of the mortar, paused and then swirled the mixture with a half-turn before adding the lyrium. Not in the least bit interested in learning this pointless technique, Connor took to squashing the leaves with a pounding motion. Kalvindir’s mouth dropped in exasperation.

“Leetle Markus! That is not proper way to make poultice!”

With a click, he dropped his pestle into the stone bowl, crossed his arms and pouted. “Guess that poultice making is not my talent.”

Kalvindir scraped the contents of both mortars onto brown paper. “I can sell this… weak poultice better than no poultice. Maybe you better at healing magic. Kalvindir find best magic for Leetle Markus. Come. Later we do magic. Time for eating, yes!”

Begrudgingly, Connor tidied the workshop, although he wondered to what end. The whole place was a mess and whether he and Kalvindir neatened the workbench or swept the floor, it made very little difference to the general chaos. Connor half-heartedly pushed a broom over the stone floor, flinging dirt under the bench. If Kalvindir was critical of this technique, he kept it to himself.

“After eating, we walk through Denerim and collect donation, then we return to house and practice fire spells. We practice in basement so we don’t burn down city. And then…” Kalvindir was organizing his herbs into small wooden drawers, not looking up as he spoke. Connor was no longer paying attention to the list of tasks that the paunchy mage was rattling off. 

Connor continued to feign work. Ever since Nuraya had dropped him off three days ago, his schedule was busier than it ever had been at the Circle. He was sure that Senior Enchanter Adler would complain at the lack of downtime in the Collective. Travelling with Revik felt like the better alternative. Free mages, should be just that—free, he thought. He wanted to sleep for as long as he wished, fill his time with whatever whim was on the wind that day and cast whatever spell he fancied—or not use magic at all if that was how he was feeling. Regret lingered as he swept, turning up thoughts of his life had he chosen to stay with Revik. With another push of the broom he wondered if Yaleen’s potions would meet Kalvindir’s high standards, and whether Revik survived his encounter with the templars at the Pearl. Guilt began to gnaw at him, as he thought longer on what he had done, and the opportunities that he had lost. _He wasn’t that bad to me, was he?_

A steady stream of mages came and went from Kalvindir’s odd little hovel. None found it particularly strange or out of place for Connor to be there and smiled thinly as they retrieved whatever article or ingredient they were looking for. Most came seeking lyrium, others inquired about runes or other arcane objects. Kalvindir sold and traded, explaining to Connor that it was important to charge a small fee but not to turn large profits. Large profits usually drew attention from the wrong people, he’d say. Connor never learned who the wrong people were, a detail he thought might be useful to know, now that he was part of the Denerim Mage’s Collective. 

At a table piled high with scrolls, candle stubs and empty lyrium vials, Connor pushed aside the junk to set down his oatmeal and steaming cup of tea. Kalvindir was reclining, holding up a parchment nearest a candle to read, his lips moving as his eyes scanned each line of text. Connor thought about tidying the table after breakfast, hoping to earn himself some spare time. Nuraya would arrive early in the evening to pay a visit, and spend most of that time talking with Kalvindir. He sensed that she was still mad at him and he was losing hope that he would ever win back her approval, and wondered if it was worth his effort.

A knock on the door interrupted Kalvindir’s reading.  Without looking up from the parchment, he took a sip of tea.

“Go get door, Leetle Markus.”

Connor rose from his seat. “Are you expecting anyone this morning?”

“No. But Mages Collective is always open for Mages.”

“How do you prevent templars from finding us? I still have a phylactery at the Circle you know. Aren’t you afraid that they will come for me?”

His eyes continued to scan the text in front of him. “Go get door. Is rude to make mages wait. Kalvindir will explain about templars later. Go!” His finger motioned for the door.

When Connor pushed the door’s peephole open, he saw two women, wearing elegant gowns and dark velvet capes, waiting impatiently in the alleyway. They waved and presented a pinky finger consumed in bright blue flame. The silver-blonde looked directly into Connor’s eyes and winked, and then nudged her raven-haired companion with a nod. Connor opened the door wide. 

“Oooh, Briony! Looks like Kalvindir has found himself a bit of help.” The mage flicked her blonde hair over her shoulder and winked again. Connor could not help but blush, causing both women to giggle. 

“Well met… I’m Markus. Come in.”

As they passed, their heavy, seductive perfume hypnotized him, and he followed them blindly back to where Kalvindir was reading, studying their swaying bottoms under the layers of sateen.  

Kalvindir peered over the top of the parchment. “Briony! Saranna! Come! Come, sit with Kalvindir. You have breakfast, yes?”

They joined him at the table, perching elegantly in their chairs, not bothered in the least by the chaotic mess in front of them.

“Markus, please fetch tea for ladies.”

Connor did not know whether they added something mysterious to their perfume or if it was merely the fact that he was in the presence of beautiful women, but he eagerly bolted from his chair and scurried to the steaming kettle. He made sure that the cups were extra clean and almost tripped over his own feet trying to serve the both of them. After refilling his and Kalvindir’s cups, he returned to his chair, anxious for their news. Surely, they had something interesting to share.  

“So, what news from Pearl?” Kalvindir asked, still interested in the document that he was holding.

_The Pearl? Can it get more interesting than that?_ Connor’s mind wandered a bit and thought naughtily about their work requirements. When those thoughts reluctantly dissipated, he wondered if the position of pot washer was open. Pot washing at the Pearl, he thought, would be an interesting career path.

The darker of the two sisters, in a midnight blue gown and black cape, wrapped her thin fingers elegantly around the cup. “Sanga has gone and hired more elves.” She furrowed her brow and pouted. “Seems that everyone is all about the exotic. I suppose that Saranna and I will have to concoct some duel act to keep up. As far as madams go, Sanga offers a fair commission and all, but…”

“Briony, you minx,” the blonde purred. “You’re just jealous that the templars only have eyes for young elven boys.”

“I dare say sister that you looked rather put out last night when Ser Boylan passed you over for that new lad from the alienage…”

Connor realized that he had seen Briony before—naked and dancing on a table. She was more seductive and alluring with all her clothes on, and he wondered a moment on that contradiction.

Kalvindir interrupted Connor from daydreaming any further. “Girls, girls, please no shop talk. You have news, yes?”

“Well, that is just our point. Since Sanga decided to hire those elves, we don’t get near the number of templars as often as we’d like!” Briony propped herself up with her elbows and held the cup to her full, berry-stained lips. 

“Don’t worry sister, the boys will grow bored with the novelty. Happened last summer when Sanga hired that dwarf, remember?”

As the ladies continued to chatter and giggle about the mundane aspects of their work, Kalvindir limped about his room, poking through an odd assortment of painted wooden boxes and collected his smoking regalia. Briony helped Kalvindir light the fragrant tobacco in the carved ivory bowl in the same manner that Nuraya had done a few nights before.

“So you wake early and visit Kalvindir to report that you not busy at Pearl?”

“Briony just likes to hear herself talk. We have news. What have you?”

Kalvindir reached into his pocket and produced a worn leather pouch. He pulled the drawstring and let the contents tumble onto the table. Excitedly, the ladies each grabbed a specimen and scrutinized the small ampules filled with liquid silver in their palms.

“How potent?” Briony asked.

Kalvindir held out his hand and retrieved the potions with a twinkle in his eye.

“News first, payment later,” he answered, scooping up the small shiny objects and depositing them back into the pouch. “With this you will have templar under your command for whole night… not few hours like last batch.”

Briony’s eyes widened in wicked delight. “All night, Saranna! Just think what we will be able to do…” She winked when Connor mustered the nerve to catch her gaze.

Saranna folded her hands neatly and set them in front of her. “Even though our services have not been in high demand as of late—”

“—I have potion for that, but go on…” Kalvindir chuckled.

“…there has been no lack of activity at the Pearl. There are templars coming from all corners… Kirkwall, Kinloch Hold… even Val Royeaux…”

“The Orlesians have the dirtiest minds—” said Briony with a wry smile.

“—but the cleanest nails!” Her sister added as they giggled in unison. 

Connor’s ears perked when she mentioned the templars arriving from the Circle. It should not have surprised him but it set him on edge all the same.

 “Kirkwall? Interesting! Save best for last… tell more about Kinloch Hold templar.”

“There is a group that’s been coming in every night, minding their own business for the most part. One or two will sneak off with Briony and me when it is late enough. Their tastes are plain… they behave… more so than any of their Denerim comrades. I had one Kinloch templar want to play mage and templar… asked me to wear his helmet even! Anyway, he had quite the hankering for Antivan brandy, and I so happened to have a bottle. Loosened his tongue up… ”

“Now, now, we don’t need the details, just tell him what he said, dear sister,” Briony tittered.

“Four templars up from the lake. Seems that one of their mages got away on them.”

Kalvindir grunted and shifted his eyes to Connor. “Mages escape all of time. This not news,” he shrugged. It was interesting for Connor to learn that escaped Circle mages were not that remarkable to the Mage’s Collective.

Saranna’s voice turned to velvet. “It is news, if the mage happens to be the Lord Chamberlain’s son.”

Connor took a long sip of his tea and tried to look interested in the discussion, focusing on the low cut of Briony’s dress and marvelled at her rosy and ample bosom, especially the deep crease that nestled in between. So focused on her size and shape, he found himself leaning closer, and not reacting as he thought he should to the news her sister had just delivered. At that point, he realized that there was something more to her perfume than flowers. Kalvindir also noticed where he directed his attentions and snorted.

“Leetle Markus, you think Briony’s perfume smell good? Maybe I can make you batch, so girls will leer at you.” His voice became sing-songy. Unknowingly, Connor snapped out of the spell, now aware of where his eyes had settled. He blushed, realizing that Kalvindir had caught him staring.

Kalvindir tapped his finger on the table and did not react to the revelation either. “These templars think this mage in Denerim?” For the first time in his life, he felt like just another wayward mage with a complicated past. At the same time, he expected some acknowledgement that he was the Lord Chamberlain’s son. He was of noble blood after all. Kalvindir’s lack of concern churned his already entrenched state of abandonment.

“Before the Kinloch templar became completely… distracted… he told me that this mage was …high priority. Apparently the Grand Cleric herself got her nose in this one. Sounds like a wild morsel of gossip really, but the Hero of Ferelden saved this mage from a demon before the Blight… I don’t think they had any idea this mage went…” Saranna shrugged, her breasts jiggled slightly and she sighed loudly. “I do suppose my templar was rather… preoccupied. But that isn’t the best news! Tell him, Briony! Tell him about the other night!”

“Oh yes! There was a terrible commotion between a blood mage and the templars!”                      

Kalvindir chewed on the mouthpiece of his pipe, his voice was gruff. “Blood mage? Does he belong to Collective?”

“Never heard of him before. He had a contact with the White Falcons… goes by Revik. Think he is a forest mage for the most part. Anyway… he started quite a ruckus. ‘Course the Falcons had to stick their noses into the whole affair and next thing you know, there were chairs flying… Blood mage got a right good beating, but left the Pearl in one piece.”

Kalvindir cleared his throat. “Never had business with this Revik. How about Leetle Markus, you know of Mage with this name?”

Connor twisted the corner of his mouth, unsure how he should share the tale. Was Revik an ally or an enemy?

“We travelled together,” he answered neutrally.

“Ah, also teach Leetle Markus on art of blood magic, yes?”

Briony grabbed Connor’s hand, and before he could pull it away and tuck it in a pocket, she traced a cool elegant finger down the length of the pink scar. For a fleeting second he wondered if it would ever heal properly or if it was his burden to bear.

“It appears that Little Markus is a very naughty little boy,” she teased.

He pulled back his hand and hid it under the opposite arm. “It was just the one time. Revik didn’t teach me… it was Yaleen. The templars killed her. Would have killed me too if I did not do this…” he flashed his scar again, and sank back into his seat defensively. He was on the cusp of revealing his name, just to rid himself of the _Little Markus_ torment, but was not in the mood to deal with Nuraya’s reaction to that. If Briony and Saranna were anything like the older girls at the Circle, they would spread every last detail through Denerim, like fire on grasslands.

“So, Little Markus, what is your story?” Seranna arched an eyebrow.

Lying had become effortless. “Ran away from Dungarven when I learned that my folks had turned me in to the templars. Heard about Kalvindir and the Collective and decided to make a go of it in Denerim. I met Yaleen and Revik on the way here. I was at the Pearl when the fight broke out, but I managed to duck out…”

Briony became very excited and squirmed in her seat. “You’re that kid! Revik cussed you something fierce, lad. Oooh… I don’t think he much appreciated that!” She giggled. “Kalvindir will keep you out of trouble lad. We joined the Collective when we were just girls as well.”

The old mage grimaced. “But Kalvindir advised very much strongly about not taking job at the Pearl…” he swirled his tea absentmindedly.

“Now now, we don’t need to start that debate again,” Briony said “I’m sure you won’t argue that a spy in the house of love has benefited the Collective.”

“We can’t help that we enjoy what we do…” Seranna shrugged. “But you still take good care of us…” She reached over the table and pinched Kalvindir on the cheek, causing him to blush.

At that moment, Connor recognized the deep hole within himself, and sadly, realized that Kalvinidir would not be capable of filling it. He did not feel sad about this, just more or less frustrated that he might have to pretend about sentiments that he did not have.

“Kalvindir teach Leetle Markus how to protect himself with best magic. Demons just using you… leeching you of power. You do not need demon. Kalvindir show you.”

Saranna grinned widely and pointed to herself. “He showed me! I gave up the habit long ago.” She peeled down a long satin glove to reveal a criss-cross pattern of scars along the inside of her arm. “The demons still tease me every day, but I don’t give in. Not worth the trouble anymore. Besides, there are much more interesting things that I can do with honest magic…”

Connor caught himself staring in her liquid lyrium eyes, and half wondered if a desire demon was able to surreptitiously reach through her gaze and squeeze his hammering heart.  The old mage jolted him from his momentary reverie.

“Before Kalvindir forget, you know of story about malificars abducting woman in Denerim? Girls, stay off street at night. I hear story every day. People start asking Kalvindir if Mages Collective will solve problem. Not like City guard get involved….” He tapped his finger nails on the tabletop and then clenched his fist as he thought more on the situation.

Saranna waved her hand nonchalantly. “I don’t believe those tales for a second. Just a bunch of Chantry gossip if you ask me. Some gang member tosses a rival into the harbour and next thing you know… they blame the mages.”

“Just be careful, my pretty ladies…”

Briony’s dark eyes twinkled in the candlelight. Connor almost forgot that it was still the morning. “Aren’t we always? Now, sit back… you will not believe what has happened in Kirkwall…”

~0oOo0~

Back in the workshop, Connor was sitting in front of a growing pile of elf root stalks and leaves. He and Kalvindir had spent the entire day wandering from alley to alley gathering the Collective’s monthly donations. It brought Connor a great deal of satisfaction that he could sling the full sack over his shoulder with little effort. By the time they returned to Kalvindir’s hovel, the overweight mage was red-faced and out of breath, while Connor had barely broken a sweat. He had Revik to thank for that.

He sighed loudly, looking at the pile he had completed and comparing it to that in the sack. His fingers were starting to numb at the tips from the herb’s juice. The work bench smelled like a cat’s fur after a snowfall—fresh and clean. The aroma was not as seductive as Briony and Saranna, but pleasant, nonetheless.

Kalvindir settled into his chair in the next room with a loud grunt.

“After Leetle Markus is done, he can sit by fire and read to Kalvindir. Tonight my eyes are very much weak.”

_Reading. I’d rather stick this knife in my eye_. Last night he had to read from an old musty tome that described the preparation of a stamina tonic. It required a great deal of elfroot, and a dizzying number of steps, that Connor had the displeasure of reading aloud. He assumed that this was advanced herbalism, as he had never seen the likes of it at the Circle. The recipes he was accustomed to, involved throwing a handful of ingredients into a pot and hoping for the best. The stamina tonic went to such level of detail that it specified that only a silverite knife and an iron pot were to be used. Leaves were to be cut in very particular shapes and ingredients were to be added in a precise order and in a timed sequence. Connor was hoping that Kalvindir would not insist that he prepare the tonic. There was no way that he would be able to remember all the requirements. He rolled his eyes and huffed at the thought of reading the recipe out loud again—Kalvindir must have an interesting book worth reading. Surely, he had a copy of _Adventures of the Black Fox_ kicking around.

His wrist had slackened, a consequence of his eavesdropping, so he resumed his snipping and cutting and quickened his pace. The knife gleamed in the lantern light. From the other room, Kalvindir limped to the front door and ushered in his guest.

Connor leaned back on his stool and caught a glimpse of Nuraya. She lifted off her pack and set it beside the chair nearest the door. Sighing in frustration, she and plopped into the chair, not noticing that Connor was watching her from the other room. She leaned her head against the back of the chair and combed her hands through her hair at the temples.

“News from Kirkwall is all over Denerim. Templars arriving in city. Already make it to Pearl.” Kalvindir said, pointing with his pipe.

Nuraya pressed her fingers against her temples and squeezed her eyes shut.

“You have headache? Kalvindir get you something for headache.”

“I’ll be fine. Seems that every political corner in Denerim has been put on high alert and is sticking mages in the middle. I need to get out of here.”

“I hear this morning that mages from Kinloch circle also come to Denerim.”

She continued to play with her braid, her hands were jittery. He slowed his chopping and leaned closer to the door so he could make out her reply.

“Is the Circle publicising who escaped, or are they keeping a lid on that?”

Kalvindir’s back was to Connor. He could not watch his reaction. A trail of smoke curled above his head.

“My contact tells Kalvindir that escape mage is son of Lord Chamberlain. If low ranked Templar knows this, I am guess that this is not secret.”

She leaned forward and spoke under her breath. Connor stopped and tried to catch what she was saying but their voices were too muffled. Afterwards, she rose from her seat. Connor quickly resumed cutting his elfroot, so as not to look as if he was eavesdropping. Nuraya stood in the doorway and leaned against the jamb with her arms folded. 

“Kalvindir knows who you are. You need to stay here until I can figure out where to take you. He’s confused that you don’t seem to be taking an interest in his lessons.”

“Lessons! Is that what they are called? In Tevinter they call it slavery.”

Nuraya let out an exasperated huff. “Just because you are a mage doesn’t mean that your abilities improve on their own. Aren’t you interested in learning magic from him? He’s a skilled mage. You won’t find his degree of talent anywhere else. Plus he has contacts, has an ear to the ground… so far he is not convinced that the templars know your whereabouts, but he will be the first to know when they do.”

Connor stared at the elfroot, and chopped it with more precision. The knife handle dug into his scar. The pressure and the pain matched the tugging in his chest, the feeling of being lost, directionless, on a stormy sea without rudder or sail. “So I have to stay here,” he said, in an almost complaint. “And he’ll call me _Leetle Connor_.”

“I am sure the Circle would gladly raise the gate should you decide to return. So in the meantime, he’ll continue call you Markus. No point in spreading rumours all over Denerim, although I am sure the templars are closer than we fear.”

“But I don’t _like_ it here, Nuraya.”

She raised an eyebrow and opened her mouth to say something but thought better of it. “You did not leave me much choice, Connor. This is the only workable solution… for now.”

“I could go out on my own.”

“Well go! Good luck. Write me a letter when you get settled.” She crossed a foot over the other and cocked her hip.

He did not really want to leave, but he could not imagine doing another day’s worth of chores for the Collective. As he thought about waking in the morning to another long list of things to accomplish, his hand started to tighten around the handle of the knife. He stacked a handful of leaves and started cutting according to Kalvindir’s detailed specifications, causing his hand to tremble from his ever tightening grip. A cool hand gripped his, and her warm brown eyes brought him back to the surface.

“Why did you come find me if you do not want my help?”

He bit his lip and removed his hand from her touch. The sound of the knife on the wooden bench thumped in time with his heart, with his quickening breath. Finally, when words would not come, he shrugged.

“When I was at the Circle, everyone treated me as if I had the plague. Now that I am here, it seems that I have no ability to speak of… I don’t want to be a mage anymore…”

Nuraya placed a hand on his shoulder but he wiggled from her touch, concentrating on the up and down motion of the knife, on the way the flame momentarily caught the edge, and when he set it on the table to scoop up the finished pile of masticated leaves, he saw his fury simmer just below the surface in the metal’s reflection.

“No one chose this path. We must do what we can with what we have.”

“I don’t choose. I refuse.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that. The only time that I’ve known a mage to stop using magic…” Her voice trailed off before she could finish her thought.

“…was when they were made tranquil. I get it. I’m not interested. No spells. No potions. If I just stop, maybe I can join my parents again…”

Nuraya frowned and lowered her voice to smooth out the barbs in her tone. “Connor, they would most likely send you back to the Circle. I’m sorry. I know this is difficult. Tell you what… why don’t I come ‘round tomorrow afternoon and I’ll take you out… no chores, no lessons. How does that sound?”

Connor rolled his eyes. “Alright, I suppose.” He placed the chopped elfroot in an earthenware pot.

“You look tired. Go to bed. I’ll tell Kalvindir.”

As he watched her leave the small laboratory, he slipped the knife into his pocket. He had plans with it.  


	22. Kessler

She was staring, unintentionally of course, but it unsettled Kessler all the same. Even before she called him out as a mage, Kessler was not altogether sure whether Saunière’s idea to visit was a good one. Of course, he was in no position to argue. With her admission came the sensation of being naked. He wanted to squirm but did not want the Orlesians to believe that they had gained an advantage over him. There he sat in front of the fire, naked and alone.

_Let’s just stand on the Chantry’s spire and announce that I am a mage to the entire town! Brilliant. I might as well tell her that the Champion of Kirkwall has come for a visit and wishes to case the Trevis Chantry. Perhaps I should mention that I have some explosive plans for the décor!_

Sister Tereza’s eyes were fixed on nothing in particular, pointing blankly at odd angles throughout her modest room. After an uncomfortable pause, her head turned toward Kessler, awaiting his response. Feeling her peculiar stare, his face grew hot. Obviously, this Sister had a secret ability, one that would be the envy of the entire Chantry.  To lie would just make him look a fool—more of a fool than he already felt. He wondered if she was also able to sense Tassilo and Saunière’s astonished expressions, their eyes widening as the truth sank in deeper.  As the uncomfortable seconds stretched into a long and awkward silence, he stared into the fire and carefully prepared his response. Sister Tereza leaned forward and broke the tension. 

“Bérenger, you old fool. Did you learn nothing from your years with the Order?  I’m surprised you missed this detail! He reeks!” She flared her nostrils and rolled her eyes up into her lids, fluttering her lashes. 

“The Order?” Kessler was surprised at how much could be revealed all at once.

_So the old man was a templar. I suppose the elf was a seeker. This should get interesting, if I don’t end up in a Chantry pillory._

A long trail of tobacco smoke streamed from the old man’s nose and he grumbled under his breath. “I think the good Sister put a question to you first… _Greer_.”

“I do happen to be a mage. This is true.” Kessler tried to sound casual and give the impression that this was a mere detail that he had forgotten to share with the Orlesians.  “Might I say that I am impressed, Sister Tereza, at your… skill in detecting that.”

The corner of Tereza’s mouth curled and she nodded once in affirmation. “I was always the better templar, wasn’t I, Bérenger? And I wasn’t always in the dark either. Magic seeps from your pores, mage. It’s in your blood. No matter how much you bathe, you can’t get rid of it. My sense improved once I lost my sight.” She inhaled deeply. “Your scent is… wild. I would guess that you are not from a Circle, and never have been.”

“Your senses are indeed keen. I hope that my nature does not offend you. I can leave if that be the case.”

Kessler spent his entire life hiding that he was a mage; his father had taught him well. It was the only way the Hawkes were able to go unnoticed in Lothering, and that was in spite of the host of gossipy neighbours. Kessler could ask Malcolm anything, but when it came to magic, his father was silent as the grave, and frustratingly evasive. Whenever the young Kessler dashed onto his father’s lap to show a new talent—how to conjure fire or heal a scraped knee—his father mussed his hair and instructed him on how best to use that in secret, if ever at all. Magic went unspoken in the Hawke household, as if its’ mere discussion might raise the alarm and call the templars, and Kessler keenly sensed that paranoia. The constant fear of hunting templars haunted Kessler. Even when he dashed by the Chantry, he would run as fast as he could thinking that they could see inside his mind, see his magic. Little did he know at the time that he would eventually run into someone that actually could.

On hot summer days, when he and Bethany used to flee to the forests to play in secret. They spoke awkwardly about the abilities they had discovered within themselves and compared their talents. Over the course of a summer, he watched his little sister conjure ice and fire. With the right focus, he learned to move the earth, topple objects or draw them near. At first he moved fist-sized stones. By the time the leaves had started to fall, he was able to topple a century’s old oak. That particular feat made Bethany pale in fear. He never tried that spell again until he left Lothering.

He never asked her about the side-effects he experienced when suppressing his urges and never dared asked his father either. How Malcolm had evaded the Circle was a story he had never learned and never dared to ask.  At that moment, he wondered if his father had any idea that it was possible for a templar to literally sniff them out.

“Offend me? You mistake me for someone who has an entrenched opinion about mages,” she replied.

“It’s difficult to not make that assumption, Sister. You are an active member of the Chantry and an ex-templar. It does not take a scholar to deduce what opinions you might have about mages. Besides, I imagine that the templars would be interested in capitalizing on your… talent.” After years of dealing with Orsino and Meredith, he was expecting acrimony and prejudice.

_Out of the frying pan and into the Chantry. Varric would have advised against following these two. Oh, Maker… too late for regrets! The Hero is a mage and no advocate of the Circle, so why do they want her? Surely if the Chantry wanted her, they would have sent someone more… competent. A little less… old and … well… elfy. Not that I have anything against elves. He just doesn’t seem to be the Chantry type._

“I have my reasons, Johan, to not want to get in the middle of the ridiculous squabbles between the templars and mages. I am just a lowly archivist. The templars can find someone else to do their dirty work. I preserve books… I don’t enforce doctrine.” Unknowingly, he had touched a nerve, but she seemed aware of this as well and changed the subject. “Am I to assume that your name isn’t Johan? I do understand the need to hide, mage. But Bérenger is not the sort to blindly trust capricious strangers.”

Kessler stifled a laugh with a cough.“Arlen Greer, Sister.”

“And you are a Fereldan? Or have you some strange fascination for their war hounds?”

“I was.” Shasta’s chin rested on the floor between his paws and his brown eyes darted between Sister Tereza and his master. At that moment, Kessler did not feel as if he belonged anywhere.

“Well… I am sure that your tale is interesting enough, but I know better than to ask an apostate. You’re a friend of Bérenger’s and that’s enough for me. The less I know, the less I will be able to tell the templars should they have reason to take an interest in you. Bérenger, you say you are looking for Duchamp? I may be blind, but I am no fool. What sort of trouble are you in? You would not be at my door were it not so dire.”

Kessler was relieved that Tereza’s focus had shifted to the old man.  

Crouching in front of the hearth, Saunière tapped the ashes from his pipe bowl. “Let me put it this way, Tereza. The less you know, the less likely the Seekers will appear at your doorstep.”

“I appreciate the gesture, Bérenger, but I am a blind old woman. While I have absolutely no interest in being pestered by pesky templars, why should I fear the Seekers?” She laughed heartily. “Can you imagine the Lord Seeker putting an old blind Chantry sister to the question?” Then, her expression darkened. “I hear all kinds of rumours on the wind—the Grand Cathedral is reeling from the events in Kirkwall and the Libertarians at the White Spire have renewed their cause as a result. Both orders spread nothing but fear and hearsay these days. And in the midst of the rumours and gossip, you suddenly arrive on my doorstop with an apostate. I cannot help but wonder how in the Void you are connected to this madness. I am under no illusion that the Maker limits my remaining time on this earth. And with it, I will not shrink into shadows for fear of a couple blighted Seekers knocking on my door. You need my help, and I need to know why. You know I am to be trusted, so don’t start dancing around the issue now.”

The old man returned to his seat and wrinkled his brow as he refilled the bowl of his pipe. Kessler appreciated Sister Tereza’s tenacity. Whatever history they shared, she was using it to her advantage, and Kessler was rather enjoying the show, as much as he anticipated the old man’s answers.

“If there is a connection between my arrival and the events of which you speak… I do not know of it, specifically.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “Something terrible has befallen Duchamp, and I am investigating the areas that he visited prior to his disappearance. Might I inquire further about the documents he donated? I wish to better understand his quest.”

“I thought you would never ask.” She tipped her chin up and called into the air with certainty. “Jillah!”

The maid had headed to the door even before Tereza had opened her mouth. “Right away, Sister.”

Within minutes, the maid returned and placed a leather document folder into her mistress’ hands.

“I suspect you and Tassilo might be able to make heads or tails of this. I certainly cannot. I am not even sure whether I should add this to the archive. Seems a bit out of place. It’s terribly odd that Duchamp felt the need to give these to me. Perhaps he was hoping that you might get over your stubbornness and pay me a visit.” She held out the documents in front of her. The old professor poked around his jacket pocket and scowled when he came up empty handed.

“Your lens, Professeur… you must have lost it in Nessum,” Tassilo said. “Shall I read it for you?”

The old man shook his head, untied the folder and squinted at the brittle parchment in front of the fire. He arranged himself comfortably in his chair and held the paper almost to his nose. Kessler guessed that they were in for a long evening of academic discussion. It took some effort to stifle an impatient sigh.

“What is it Professeur? Anything interesting?” Tassilo leaned closer to peer at the document. His puffy eye reminding Kessler of the situation they had just escaped. To be sitting in the parlour of a Chantry sister is not how he imagined spending the end of his week.

Saunière moved further away, not taking his eyes from the document, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. “Apparently, this is the original copy of _The Search for the True Prophet,”_ the old man said, still engrossed in his reading.

“Oh, don’t be so foolish Professeur. The Chantry has proven that document to be a fake. Don’t waste your time. No one believes Andraste to be a mage…”

“Don’t forget, young Tassilo, that copies are still distributed within the Circle. Only the Chantry has discredited it… has the university come to any conclusion about its authenticity, Bérenger?” Tereza asked.

The old man set the parchment into his lap. “Officially, the department of Theology questions its authenticity. It’s always intrigued me, however. At one point in time I thought it had its origins in Tevinter and certain Magisters distributed it to incite unrest within the Andrastian Chantries. I’ve never seen this copy before. It is very unusual. Tassilo, come see this.”

Tassilo read over the old man’s shoulder. As his eyes zigzagged down the columns of text, his brow rumpled deeper. Kessler was never much of a reader and wished he could share in his company’s enthusiasm.

“And have you an opinion on this book, Serah Johan?”

“My sister read it to me when I was a boy. The theory that Andraste was a mage is… interesting… I never thought much about it, always considered it to be nothing more than a fairy tale.”

Sister Tereza chuckled. “A fairy tale, Serah… one that has the potential to bring the Chantry to its knees. ‘Tis not a mere bedtime story.”

“It might rankle a few templars… but challenge Chantry? Aren’t you giving this book a little more credit than it’s due?” Kessler asked, thinking about Meredith. It was more than likely that she had burned every book in Kirkwall’s town square before he and his family had arrived. He had not seen a copy since he had left Ferelden.

“Never mind great armies or pestilence. It is the small things that can bring down an empire, Serah. And there is little doubt that something as small as a book has the power to bring Thedas to its knees.”

Indeed, it was the small things. Kessler wanted to agree, but kept it to himself. He thought of the sela petrae and drakestone he had helped Anders collect. How silly the task seemed at the time, and how greatly he underestimated the power of small and inconsequential things.   

“But enough talk of gloom and of falling empires. I have a question for you, Serah.”

“Indeed? Ask away.” Her question took Kessler by surprise and was glad to no longer to be talking about a book he knew nothing about.   

“A few weeks after Duchamp’s visit, a strange woman came looking for this document.”

“Strange woman?” Kessler asked.

“Mmm. A Fereldan. She had a child. She was an apostate—no mistaking her smell. Of course, she had concocted some wild story that she was working for the King’s scribe. I don’t suppose you crossed paths with such a woman in your travels?”

“What did she look like?” Once after the words slipped from his lips did he realize the error that he had made. He stammered and tried to cover his mistake.

Sister Tereza smiled widely. “It is a great compliment that you have forgotten, Serah Johan. But I do have eyes. Jillah, please describe this strange woman to our guest.”

“She was dressed plainly, dark hair, amber eyes… fair of face to be sure…”

“Oh, and that boy of hers … he reeked of all kinds of strange. Never smelled it before... wish I could put my finger on it.”

“The boy was about five, dark-haired like his mother, but must have his father’s looks.” Jillah interjected.

“And she just happened to be looking for this copy of _Search for the True Prophet_?” Kessler looked over to the old man and Tassilo. They were quietly debating whether a particular grammar rule had intentionally been broken in the text they were reading. He had no interest in joining this dry discussion and wished he had more to say on the topic of this strange woman.

“A mage shows up in disguise on my doorstep… as I said, I may be blind, but I am no fool. I figured that Duchamp wanted me to hide this text… But from who, I am still not sure.”

“And was the woman satisfied that you were not in possession of this book?” Kessler asked.

The old woman shrugged. “We spoke for a few minutes. I told her that I was a good friend of the Palace librarian in Ferelden. That shut her up and she wasn’t long leaving after that.”

“I am surprised that you did not send the templars after her.” Kessler said lightly, hoping he could hear the humour in his delivery, remembering that she could not see the grin on his face.

“I was a templar, Serah. Now I am nothing more than a blind archivist, sent to Trevis to live the rest of her useless years in utter obscurity. If the templars want to round up apostates, they can do their own dirty work. I have better things to do with my time. This woman, does she sound at all familiar to you?”

Kessler was curious and wondered about the source of her ire with the Chantry.

“A Fereldan apostate with a child? No ma’am. I know of no such person. I’m sorry. I have not been to the land of my birth since the Blight.”

“I can tell you are a worldly man, Serah. Keep an eye out for Bérenger for me. I have a feeling that this is not the last we will see of this woman. She was determined to get this document.”

~0oOo0~

Without any Antivan rum or a backpack to sort through, Kessler became restless once he had settled in his room. Jillah had escorted him there less than an hour ago, and despite his utter exhaustion, his mind was reeling and he found himself watching anxiously out the window.  A part of him expected the Nevarran Seeker to come around the corner. The Trevis street in front of Sister Tereza’s home was empty, save the lone guard that patrolled apathetically, whom he watched relieve himself in the bushes across the street. The scene reminded him of watching out his window from his Hightown manor. So lost in the memory, he half expected to hear Bodhan and Sandal’s voices carry from the front room.

It was a nice change to find a washbasin and some soap, along with a turned down bed with fresh sheets. He looked longingly at the featherbed, but instead took to pacing the length of the small bedroom and closed the shutters in an irrational fear of being watched. Afterwards, he hid Saunière’s sword under the mattress. It was the only insurance that he had left. As the walls started to close in around him, Tassilo peered from around the door. Kessler jumped.

“Sorry. Might I come in?” He offered Kessler a bottle of wine. “I figured that you might need a drink. This is all I could round up. Sister Tereza is not much of a drinker, but Jillah keeps the wine for dinner guests. I should warned you about her, but of course, I did not suspect that you were a mage either.”

Kessler graciously took the bottle and wanted to hug the Orlesian elf in utter gratitude, but decided to keep his feelings to himself.

“Come have a nip—drinking alone is never a good sign.” Kessler motioned toward a small table, but he sensed Tassilo’s hesitation. “I don’t bite…” He wiggled his fingers. “… nor will I put you under a spell…”

The last comment elicited a smile, which was enough to encourage the elf to join him.

“Did the old man retire for the night?” Kessler was an expert at uncorking a bottle without a screw. Tassilo set two simple wooden tumblers on the table and watched as he filled them with burgundy wine. It was bold and dry, just as Kessler preferred.

“I do wish you would refer to him as Professeur Saunière.”

Kessler rolled his eyes. “Only when he starts calling me the Queen of Antiva.”

Tassilo encircled his wine and wove his fingers together, leaning forward. “If you are to travel with us, you need to know that _the Professeur_ takes his work very seriously. He does not appreciate… mockery.”

“Then tell him to lighten up… so what’s all this with the _Search for the True Prophet._ Is this why you are looking for Amell?”

“I’m not sure—no—I don’t know.” Tassilo stammered. “It’s… complicated. And I am not sure that _the Professeur_ wishes to share that information with you.”

“And do you need his permission every time you wish to open your mouth? I break you out of the Seeker’s compound and all I get is the cold shoulder? I should be offended. Come on Tass!” Kessler leaned low onto the table with a crooked grin. “I’m a closet mage. I’m most likely on your side. We’re seeking the same person… our goals must be somewhat aligned. How am I supposed to help keep you out of trouble if I don’t know what kind of trouble you are in?”

“I wouldn’t say that we are in… trouble… well, until the Seekers. But that is entirely your fault, Greer! Very well. Just expect _the Professeur_ to be very irritable when he finds out.”

Relieved that he was finally getting somewhere, drank deeply. _I am so fucking sick and tired of this foolish song and dance. Secrets be damned._

He found himself engrossed in Tassilo’s tale of old professor Duchamp’s disappearance, their journey through Tylus Canyon and their discovery of the ancient carvings and the subterranean ruin. As Tassilo became more involved in the retelling of their recent adventure, he paused dramatically and took sips of the wine, using his hands to animate the discussion. It did not take long for the bottle to empty. By the time the Darkspawn had attacked he and the professeur in the heart of the ruin, Tassilo’s face was aglow and the words gushed from his lips, as if he had been waiting to repeat the whole series of events for quite some time.

“Darkspawn? In Nessum? How did you manage to get out of that one?”

Kessler had very little contact with the Darkspawn, and often relied on Anders’s expertise on those matters. Besides the spirit that occupied him, he had an uncanny knack of sensing the creatures when they were just around the corner. Anders. Amell was a warden… the Warden Commander, if he remembered correctly. The story was becoming more intriguing in the telling. Varric would have loved it.

“An elven mage… appeared. Killed them off. Every single one. I thought for sure that we were facing our end. Fiona… She worked with Duchamp for years and asked Saunière to continue Duchamp’s research and find this… key.”

“A key? To what?”

Tassilo shrugged. “Apparently, behind that door is a secret that will prove that Andraste is connected to generational magic. We both know that whatever we find will be of interest to the Chantry, and most likely call its doctrine into question.”

“No doubt.” Kessler split the remaining wine and finished his helping in one swallow. The wine’s effects had smoothed out the rough edges of his paranoia, but had no effect on the sinking feeling that he had fled Kirkwall to find himself embroiled within an even larger mess.

_Just think Kess, the Wardens, mages and Chantry all rolled up into one! Perhaps you should inquire whether there is also a Qunari connection. Maybe I can piss off the Dalish as well._

Kessler scratched the back of his head while Tassilo propped himself up at the table on his elbow. He looked inebriated enough to withstand the shock of what Kessler was about to tell him, but not drunk enough to forget the story in the morning.

“So, a secret for a secret, Tassilo.”

“I like secrets…” the elf grinned foolishly and covered his mouth with the back of his hand to stifle a hiccup.

“My name isn’t Greer.”

Tassilo cocked his head and continued to listen, his chest heaving spasmodically.

“My name is Kessler Hawke and I am from—“

“Kirkwall.”

Both Tassilo and Kessler turned to the door to see where the reply had come from.

“The Divine have mercy,” sighed Saunière. 


	23. Nuraya

Dark clouds hung low in the sky, threatening rain. Nuraya headed into the misty gloom after rising from another fitful night and slipped passed Mol and Clodagh’s notice, to wander into the vast expanse of the palace gardens. As she passed her hand over wet leaves and saturated blooms, she realized that she was not content to just look. The foliage was calling to her. To her disappointment, however, the palace gardeners were thorough, not leaving so much as a leaf out of place or a weed un-pulled. She wrapped her arms around herself to brace against the damp, cool air, and skirted a hedge of blooming forsythia to follow a trail that lead off from the main flagstone path.

Through the blossom-laden branches, her eye caught the long, smooth handle sticking from the top of the compost heap and she smiled widely—excited to see it just standing there and not locked away in the tool shed. She just wanted a quiet moment with the pitchfork and was relieved that she didn’t have to go through the bother of asking the staff awkward questions regarding the whereabouts of their tools. Eagerly, she turned the just-wilted weeds and poked them just under the surface. Unsatisfied with her initial nudges, and with increased vigor, she stepped on top of the pile and thrust the fork deep into the centre, pulling and turning the black sticky compost to the top. Steam began to rise from the centre, an indication that the decomposition process was alive and working.

Of all the gardening chores, she always looked forward to turning the compost; she liked watching things change. Even the garden refuse had fertile purpose; death had energy. Again, her foot slammed upon the metal tines and she turned the heavy soil. The tension in her back and arms released as she worked. Stab, stomp, push, pull and turn. Long forgetting about the cold and damp, sweat started to trickle down her forehead. The moment she stopped to clear her eyes, she realized that the mist had given way to the soft patter of rain. As she held the wooden handle in front of her face for another forceful plunge, she stopped and turned, sensing his presence. She had never unlearned that signal.

Alistair cleared his throat as the fork plummeted into the dark earth. Startled, she released her hold and turned and grinned weakly, rubbing her hands on her breaches and tried to stifle her embarrassment.

“The gardening staff alerted the guard about an intruder. The Captain of the Guard summonds me to dismiss Desmond, on the grounds of insubordination. Seems that Desmond knew you were out here and attempted to stop the investigation… quite a kerfuffle at such an early hour. So what did this compost pile do to deserve such punishment?”

The velvet on his jerkin was beginning to darken as a result of the raindrops. She pushed the fine tendrils of soaked hair that had escaped her braid with the back of her hand and stomped the mulch from her boots.

“Without any darkspawn, I am afraid I no longer have anything to express my utter frustration upon.”

“Sounds like you need a Holy Admission.” Alistair grinned and encouraged her to follow.

“A what?” Her response was a result of her own nervousness. Alistair had spoken of this practice before, back when they were the last Grey Wardens in Ferelden. There were also rumours that the Knight-Commander once wanted to institute the rite amongst the Circle mages, but the senior enchanters quashed that idea. She did not bother to correct herself and allowed Alistair to continue.

“A Chantry thing. Young uninitiated templars have to line up once a week to admit to the Revered Mother their personal transgressions. Half the time I had to make stuff up… forgot to pray to Andraste before bed, wanted to kiss the Chantry sister… but there were those few occasions where it was helpful to get something off my back… and have someone listen. Actually, all I promise to do is listen. You won’t have to recite the Chant of Light to absolve your wrongs against the Maker… not that I think you have committed any wrong doing… I just thought you could use an ear… Come… let’s find a roof before I completely ruin this…” he brushed the droplets from his sleeve. His nervous chatter amused her.   

 “I’m sure the Chantry would love to listen to me admit my long list of transgressions… but would the Revered Mother have the fortitude to endure it, I wonder?” Nuraya grinned and followed Alistair away from the greenhouse.

When they had exited the side path, Alistair led her to a large roofed gazebo in the heart of the garden. Later that summer the creeping wisteria and bougainvillaea that clung to the fluted pillars would explode in breathtaking fuchsia and violet. Today, the dark green leaves that spiraled around the white columns still held a stark beauty at the heart of the hazy garden. She took a seat upon a bench and stared through the mist, remarking how the weather well-reflected her inner landscape. Pink and yellow smudges of distant blooms stippled the heavy mist.

“Aren’t you worried?” she asked, knowing her statement was vague but fearing to acknowledge the obvious.

“I worry about many things, Nuraya. Which do you refer?”

She turned away to admire a cluster of waterlogged daffodils that bent to the grass. “About how this looks.” She swung her finger between herself and the King. “I don’t want to be the cause of unnecessary controversy at the palace.”

“Telari sent me out. She’s not worried. Everyone else will gossip, because that is their job it seems.”

Nuraya supposed that was enough. “Can we speak as friends? This should not concern the King… ”

“Of course. You know, it will be incredibly refreshing to listen to someone else’s problems without being compelled to come up with a solution. So… I’m all ears.” He shrugged and grinned in that familiar self-effacing way.

She let out a deep breath and began. “I had an interesting meeting with the Warden-Commander and Seeker Herzog the other day. Herzog is here to track down Anders.”

“I’ll never forget the look on Rylock’s face when you conscripted him. I don’t suppose the Chantry has ever forgiven you for that… considering what happened—forget I even said that. Do you know where he is? That could not have been a very comfortable conversation.”

“Small mercies for Warden-Commander Rastignac. He kept the discussion on the straight and narrow. I don’t have any idea where Anders ended up. Last I heard he was in Kirkwall operating a free clinic for Blight refugees. That was about a year ago.”

“Suppose he will come looking for you?”

Nuraya had not thought of that possibility and shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know… I don’t think so. I never approved of his… relationship with Justice. He still kept in contact with me, all the same. I suppose it is possible that he’ll come looking for me. But I’m probably about the last person that he could hide with—everyone knows who I am.” She thought on the situation for a while longer. “If he is, then I know nothing of it, and thankfully had no reason to lie to Herzog. That aside, I found Herzog’s proposal to the Warden-Commander somewhat disturbing.”

“A disturbing proposal?” Alistair grinned. “Do tell.”

Nuraya chuckled deeply, recalling Herzog’s audacity. “He suggested that the Seekers and the Wardens collaborate in the search for Anders.”

Alistair’s eyes widened in disbelief and Nuraya nodded in acknowledgement. “I know! I thought the Wardens operated outside of political and religious offices.”

“Dare I ask how the Warden-Commander responded to that?”

“He is sending an envoy to Weisshaupt with that request. Anders threatens the stability of Thedas. Of course, his membership with the Grey Wardens complicates matters entirely. No one can prove the intentions of his actions…”

“He destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry, he’s a mage… the message seems pretty clear to me.”

Nuraya nodded. “Yes, but he was also a Warden that helped save Amaranthine from being overrun by darkspawn… no one, outside of his small circle of friends, knew of his attitude toward the Wardens whilst in Kirkwall. Rastignac and I both agree that to not launch a search would send the wrong message with regard to deserters. Once a Warden…”

“Always a warden… unless you become King.” Alistair scowled but then returned his attention to the discussion at hand. “So, can I ask if Rastiganc as decided on a course of action?”

“He thinks that we can cooperate with the Seekers without necessarily partnering with them. He is recommending to the First Warden to form a loose alliance, in hopes that it will offer a conciliatory gesture. The Wardens are supposed to stand outside the realm of politics, but I don’t think whoever made those rules quite imagined the situation that we find ourselves in now. He is putting Anora in charge. She and a small unit will leave by ship for the Free Marches in a few weeks. Tentatively, the plan is to sail for Kirkwall and complete a preliminary investigation and then proceed on to Weisshaupt.”

“Anora! Interesting. So this had you senselessly beating a compost pile?”

Nuraya touched each finger on her left hand as she rattled off her reasons. “First there is _your_ … problem...”

Alistair grimaced but let her continue.

“…then there are the Seekers who are demonstrating a little too much interest in me… and there is another situation that has come up that I cannot speak about.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Trust me,” she replied flatly, “you really do not want to know. And then of course, there is Fiona and this Orlesian fellow, who I have yet to meet.”

“Oh yes. I have been meaning to ask about that. No further word? Fiona did not elaborate very much on him before she left for the White Spire.”

“I’m not sure how long I can bear to wait for an Orlesian stranger. In some ways, he is the least of my worries. So there you have it. My messy life. And you think life outside the palace walls is enviable.”

“And what plans have you today? I must discuss taxation policy with Eamon and a handful of Landsmeet representatives. Care to join?”

Nuraya stood and stretched. “Sounds… riveting. I’ll pass though,” she said with a wink. “An old friend of mine from Dungarven is set to arrive in Denerim. I am hoping to connect with him this evening. Which brings me to a small request I must ask of you.”

“A request for a friend or for the King? This should be good.”

“You decide. Give Ser Desmond a night off. I don’t need to be followed. I can take care of myself.”

He raised an eyebrow suspiciously but eventually nodded in agreement. “He’s very discreet you know. I selected him myself… you are making me nervous. What are you up to?”

She grinned, hoping that he understood that her request was as nothing more than appeasing her wounded pride. She didn’t need security, and was able to care for herself. The shower had passed and a patch of blue sky allowed sunlight to weakly filter through.

“Well look at that,” Alistair said as he stood. “Looks as if we may get a bit of sun in today.”

 

~0oOo0~

She dangled her feet at the end of the wharf, her bare toes hovering inches over the calm ocean. The sun had burned away the fog and a warm breeze chased away any further threat of rain. A fishing line waited expectantly, sinking deep within the murky depths of the Amaranthine Ocean, the line drifting with the current. A gull screeched overhead, wrenching Nuraya out from her dreamy moment.

“Did you hear me? I was thinking of joining the Wardens.” Connor jerked the fishing pole and slackened the line once he determined that the opposite end was still available for biting.

“The Wardens? Do you understand what that entails?” She looked over at him and watched his wavy hair blow in the salty breeze. Their boots were lined up at the end of the dock and his feet were swinging in tandem with hers.

“Killing darkspawn, stopping blights, fighting dragons…” he said, pulling his line from the water to check the bait. He found another spot to dunk his line.

She bit her lip, wanting to tell him the secrets of the joining and the calling, but knew better. It was not that she wanted to dissuade him from the Order, it was that she found that her attachment to Connor made it difficult for her to encourage him unknowingly into an early death. His stormy moods aside, she was now responsible for him. She was the reason he lived. Before she could think of the right thing to say, the young mage cast his line again.

“What else is a free mage to do?” he asked, teasing his line.

“You’re an apostate, Connor. There is no such thing as a free mage. We won’t ever be free until the Chantry’s involvement with the Circle ends. Don’t ever forget that it is a privilege to live beyond the Circle. In return, you have to use your powers for good. We command a great power within us, which means we bear the great responsibility to show the world that we can use it conscientiously. Just because a warrior is skilled with a blade does not mean he will go killing innocent people willy-nilly in the street. I think it’s the same for us, but the difference is that people don’t trust mages in the same way they trust swordsmen.”  She paused for a moment, watching Connor’s stiff expression.

Her self-righteousness felt contrived; it was her intention to break through his stubbornness, so she threw everything she had at him. After watching his expression and not seeing so much as a twitch of acknowledgement, she carried on. She tried to a more encouraging tone. Self-righteousness rarely worked on anyone.  “Why don’t you spend some time with the Collective, learn how to heal, get a few more spells under your belt before joining the Order? I am not saying no… I’m asking that you live a little before giving up the rest of your life.”

“Flaming Andraste, Nuraya. You make the Wardens sound like a death sentence.”

Before Nuraya could offer her carefully chosen answer, he jerked his arms, pulling a flipping silver fish onto the dock. He grinned triumphantly and placed his foot over the flopping body and maneuvered the hook from its gaping mouth. Without a word, he picked up the fish and whacked its head on the side of the dock, then deposited it into a waiting bucket. Biting his lip, he threaded a fry onto the end of the hook.

“This ought a score some points for _Leetle Markus_ …” Connor handed the rod over to Nuraya. “Your turn.”

“What’s the score?” she asked, accepting Connor’s offer.

“I’m up one.”

She cast into the sea, aiming for a murky area nearest one of the pilings. Eels preferred the dark places, and she had a particular fondness for eel.

He stretched out into the sun like a cat. “So, what is it Nuraya? Can I join the Wardens?”

She wanted to lash out and question whether he had heard anything she had just said. Instead, she sighed. “Can we make a deal? How about you spend a couple years refining your craft. I’ll take you to Amaranthine and you can study with the Collective there. An old Dalish friend of mine has taken up the cause. Once you’re nearing your eighteenth year, I’ll perform the Joining ritual for you... myself.”

Connor furrowed his brow and pouted.

Nuraya was not in the mood to placate him. The rod twitched in her grasp and she pulled, hauling a black writhing creature, flinging and flailing, spraying water as it rebelled against its capture. It writhed violently as she worked the hook from its lip and tossed it back in the water. In some ways, she envied Connor. He could slip through her fingers just as easily, and no one would ever find him. He would not be tagged like she. She was forever a Warden, however long she had left.

“That was a perfectly good eel!” Connor cried.

“I prefer the taste of freedom.”

~0oOo0~

 

“What’s the name again?” The Silver Knight’s inn keep stared into his ledger, flipping the pages in concentration.

Nuraya tapped her fingers on the worn bar. “Ruskin Kirch. He should be accompanied by his young bride and infant.”

The man, sporting overgrown salt-and-pepper mutton-chops read over his ledger again, tracing down the page with his finger. The loose-fitting cuffs of his cotton shirt were stained with ink and hinted at his sloppy penmanship. His curly comb-over slipped over his forehead and he quickly positioned it back with his thumb, in a manner that suggested that this was a frequent gesture. Nuraya wondered why he was unable to accept his inevitable baldness. When he was satisfied with his investigation of the guest ledger he looked up and smoothed his hair again.

“No, Messere. No one by that name is registered here.”

“I expect him any day,” she sighed, ignoring her habit of arriving at worst case scenarios. “When he does arrive, can you see that he receives this?”

She passed the inn keep a note secured with her seal and a silver for his attention.

“It would be my pleasure, ma’am.” He slipped the letter into his book and closed it with a smile, returning his comb-over to its spot, just north of his forehead.  

Discouraged, she left the inn and decided to swing by Warden Headquarters to collect Oghren and Nathaniel for drinks. It would have been easier to return to the Palace just a few streets away, but she was in need of a happy distraction and turned in the opposite direction down a dark side street. Her gut told her which way she should wander. Without the benefit of a map, she relied on her sense of direction—and Warden Headquarters was still too far for her to detect. During her adventures in the days of the Blight, it never led her astray, but she half-wondered if this was a skill that would rust from lack of use. Her years spent in the comforting familiarity of Dungarven offered her few opportunities to explore or to get lost. While she was aware that the possibility to lose her way was quite conceivable, it did not cause her any concern or worry. She was free to wander the streets of Denerim and there was no one following her or second guessing every corner or blind alley that she took.  

At dusk, once the Chantry bells chimed their faraway hymn, the streets began to empty and she found herself in a rather deserted area of the city.  The road turned onto a dark, winding lane. She hoped that it would lead her toward one of the bridges that spanned the Drakon River. An ache, deep in the pit of her stomach, made her think twice before entering the darkened alley. There were plenty of times where her better sense had warned her against proceeding through a passageway or turning a corner, but she would never had survived the Blight had she obeyed every hair that stood on the back of her neck. Walking alone and without a chaperone made her giddy—she had not been this free since she had fought in the Blight. For a moment, she danced a little jig in the middle of the street, just to mark the moment, forgetting about the shiver that had flickered down her spine.

She checked over her shoulder, confident that she was entering the alley alone. Light seemed to avoid this part of Denerim and the darkness between the two buildings devoured her. The waning twilight offered just enough light, but the shadows were deepening by the minute, growing longer and darker. Between the two abandoned buildings were piles of rubbish—planks, piled haphazardly alongside smashed barrels and the remnants of half-burned timber. She hoped to capitalize on the last of the light she hurried through, wondering if this area was a lingering scar from the battle of Denerim, a part of town that no one bothered to rebuild.

For a second, she thought she heard the echo of footsteps and stood still for a moment, listening. She heard nothing but the pounding of her heart inside her ears. The alley grew darker the farther she walked. A shadow moved ahead of her—or was it? It was too dark to be certain. Fear flooded her veins as she searched for the exit. She swore she could hear a stone scuttle across the stone passageway and wondered if the vague sound of shifting leather was real or in her head. She thought of Zevran’s ability to approach as soft as a shadow—so silent, so deadly. What trick of the mind made distances seem longer? As she followed the curve of the alley, a sense of security washed over her as the adjoining street peered from the darkness. When she returned to the road, she sighed in relief, checked her bearings, and decided upon a direction which she hoped would take her to the Market District.

It all happened so fast.

A hand covered her mouth and a sharp coolness pressed against her neck. Before she could scream, or even react in surprise, a strong hand yanked her back into the alley. She grabbed his arms, thick and covered in dark hair, and hoped her compliance would buy her a few extra moments. Her dirk, hidden in the mouth of her boot, was out of reach. Gathering her wits, she focused all her energy inside her mind and visualized a paralysis spell. As she collected her thoughts, bringing together the spell’s intricate geometric patterns, some unseen force counteracted her efforts. The images in her mind rippled away like a stone thrown in a still pond. Not matter how hard she tried, she was unable to smooth out the image. Trying a new tactic, she imagined flame, but before she could manifest it, he drained her of magic completely.

With nothing left but raw fear, she began to flail as the blade dug even deeper into her neck.

“Not a word,” His breath burned across her cheek. “The Hero isn’t watching where she is going. She is not very careful. Don’t you wonder who wants you more? The King? The Wardens? The Circle? Maybe the Chantry eh?”

Darkness engulphed her and despite his warning, she struggled in his grip and squealed as loud as she could muster, her body tensing under the pressure. For a moment, she directed her anger inward, furious that she let her guard down and for allowing her stubborn pride to insist that she did not require a personal guard. 

He could not control her magic forever. In the darkness, as he clumsily pushed her forward, toward a nameless destination, she thought back on the sensation of having her magic drained. It felt more like it had been stolen, rather than weakened. It reminded her of her encounters with blood mages.

_Maker-be-sent-to-the-Void, even the blood mages are after me._

The irony of the situation was not lost on her, even as her chances for escape seemed in rapid decline. As he dragged her into the alley, various escape scenarios flicked through her mind and hope faded. She was alone, unarmed and no one knew her current whereabouts and had to find the right moment, the best split second she could exploit to gain the advantage and devise the right combination of spells to create enough distance between her and her assailant. Unwilling to allow her fear to shatter her rationality, she thought of the Archdemon, the Architect, and both broodmothers and it gave her a point of focus, a bearing in which to cling, a reminder that she was a survivor. She always had been.

His hand clumsily groped her breast as he pushed her back through the alley. His finger slipped between her lips and she seized her opportunity and bit on his finger—hard. He cried out in surprise and she screamed for help. That was all she needed. Her magic returned, a weak sensation at first that needed more time to regain momentum. If she was to gain the upper hand, she would have to wait. To cast a weak spell, would only trap her longer. He repositioned the knife beneath her chin, pinning her arms behind her back. This time he drew blood.

“Your head is also worth a fair price too. I ain’t afraid of a little mess, you sneaky little bitch!” 

Panic swelled again and her thoughts roiled erratically, scattering the focus she momentarily held. Her mind reeled, trying to worked out just the beginnings of a plan before her captor had her removed from the streets. If she could focus for a moment, she might have a fighting chance. Like a swift current, hope was tugging from her shore.

As another wave of fear crashed over her, a great force bowled her and her assailant to the ground. Her head slammed against the corner of some forgotten piece of timber and her vision swam. Before the darkness swallowed her completely, she caught a glimpse of silverite. 


	24. Saunière

Professeur Berenger Saunière, gifted rhetorician and expert in Andrastian theology, watched the digested remains of his breakfast tumble alongside the cog’s hull and into the Minanter. Contact with the water was a bland affair—a silent tribute, lacking in both drama and flair. The surface of the Minanter accepted the offering and dissolved his offering on contact. Saunière thought there should have at least been a splash to mark the pinnacle of his embarrassment. His stomach continued to lurch and reel and the sourness on his palate made matters no better.  

He leaned against the side of the boat, trying to ignore the repulsive stench of fish and tipped his head skyward.  The professor imagined his purging was a sacrifice to the river god and in a rare moment of weakness, begged whatever omnipotent beings that might be listening to return him safely to dry land. Clenching his fists, bearing against his internal rebellion, he found no respite in watching the green banks of the Minanter drift indolently by. A boat was a boat, whether a lowly river cog on its way to Nevarra City carrying Wyvern hides for the tanneries, or a magnificent schooner setting sail upon the Amaranthine.  The professor, ready to retch again, had yet to accept that water travel would be a fixed certainty in the coming weeks.

He supposed he should have felt some degree of gratitude as Sister Tereza had come up with the coin to pay the trader passage—for all three, no less. The journey would take them no more than a half-day as opposed to a longer slog on foot. As he tried to conjure the necessary feelings to remotely simulate appreciation, he realized the mistake he had made. He tried to pin point whether it was in agreeing to find this key of dubious existence or accepting help from the Champion of Kirkwall.  Reluctant to admit his error, he realized it was too late to avoid both river travel and accompanying the most notorious man in all of Thedas. Kessler Hawke. His stomach churned again and he could sense the acids rising but desperately worked to keep them down.

“Please, drink this, Professeur.”

The breeze that filled the sails did not alleviate the stifling heat on deck. And despite the pasty rot that coated his tongue, he could not help but fear that even Tassilo’s water would return to the river. He flicked away the water skin with the back of his hand and wished that sleep would overtake him and allow him to escape this whole bloody ordeal.

Hawke was hand rolling a pinch of tobacco near a coil of rope. “Best not get dehydrated, old man.” He reached inside his coat. “Take this. Sister Tereza gave this to me this morning, told me to give it to you and not to take no for an answer.” He stuck the cigarette in his mouth and grinned, offering his hound a scratch behind the ears. The dog panted and a string of drool fell to the deck. Saunière was certain that the dog’s strong Fereldan odour was contributing to his discontent.

 _Of_ _course she did_. He turned away from the vial of Maker-knew what. It was the most unpleasant shade of green and appeared to have extra lumps for good measure. There was no way that would make it past his lips, regardless of its promised effect.

To spite the lot of them he took the water skin and sipped and then wiped his lips with the back of his hand when he had finished. Almost immediately he felt his body begin to reject it, but used a series of coughs to mask the dry heaves. It seemed a temporary victory.

He watched as Hawke ignited a finger and lit his tobacco, tipping his head high and allowing the smoke to billow with the wind. _My cursed constitution… if only I could nibble on the end of a pipe_ , he thought ruefully but dared not tempt his delicate equilibrium. This involved remaining absolutely still and concentrating on the bobbing horizon. Since speaking did not impose undue imbalance, Saunière cleared his throat.

“The Seekers are after _you_ …” Hawke narrowed his gaze in response and for some reason this gesture coincided with the return of his nausea. He managed to get out fragments of what raced through his mind. “The Kirkwall Chantry… _you_ …”

“It’s not quite that simple, old man.” He continued to scratch the dog. This time the beast wagged its stumpy tail when Saunière looked over to it and raised an eyebrow.   

Tassilo took over. “Word in Orlais is that the Champion was responsible for the destruction of the Chantry, as well as the murders of the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter.” It amused Saunière that Tassilo was not one to mince facts, even in front of the source of every rumour fermenting across the continent.

He closed his eyes and focused on their voices. This was probably the only distraction that he would get and felt a strange sort of delight when Hawke groaned. _Try and weasel your way out of this one._ Had he the strength to deal with the mage’s ire, he might have said it aloud. The dog remained oblivious to the subtle change in his master’s tone.

“Anders destroyed the Chantry. He was a friend of mine. A mage and a Grey Warden no less! He once worked in Amaranthine with the Hero, might I add.”

Saunière filed that detail away for another day and said nothing, signalling to Hawke to continue with his account.

 “With regards to the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter, I would have to say that they stuck me in the middle of their quarrels and constantly pitted me against the other. I certainly was not the cause of their troubles—those existed long before I arrived in Kirkwall. As far as I can determine, they brought all their troubles upon themselves. And believe it or not, I tried to mediate. Last time I’ll get in the middle of Chantry business.”

“Stannard and Orsino’s deaths were not directly related to the Chantry’s destruction?” Tassilo asked.  

“Indirectly.”  Hawke inhaled deeply and sharply blew the smoke out through his nose. “The Chantry went first… and of course the Knight-Commander implicated me. It did not make matters any better when I refused to execute Anders. I was pretty pissed at him to be honest. The asshole planned the whole thing behind my back, even got me to do some of his dirty work for him. Course, I had no idea what he was up to. I would have told him to fuck right off if I had… Yeah… Anders might have been unhinged at times, but he certainly was not stupid. As luck would have it, Anders saved my ass on more than one occasion and we put up a good fight when the Knight-Commander went bat-shite crazy with that sword she had forged with that tainted lyrium idol.”

 _Lyrium idol?_ This was another detail the professor set aside for dry land.

“And he planned and executed the single largest act of domestic terrorism, all under your nose? As friends, you could not have been that close,” Tassilo inquired.

Saunière smiled to himself. Tassilo furrowed his brow, working through Hawke’s frail logic.

“I was busy. Besides, Anders was… odd. ” Kessler explained the nature of this strange relationship that he had cultivated with a fade spirit. It sounded like demon business to Saunière.

“I find it difficult to believe that you were not an active member of the mage’s underground.” Tassilo remarked. “Isn’t that what apostates do?”  

Kessler drew great offense at being called an apostate and spit on deck. He bit the top of his lip and inhaled his cigarette a few times.  “I guess that’s what you Chantry folk call a guy like me. But just because I happen to be a mage, doesn’t make me the ideal candidate to champion all mages in the realm. At first, I just wanted to survive, make some coin and chase some skirts. Either it was a great stroke of luck or my biggest misfortune, but I became somewhat _known_ throughout Kirkwall. People came to me when they needed help… because they knew that those in charge did _nothing_.  Situations with escaped Circle mages popped up all the time. But the poor got robbed, the hungry went without food as well.” He looked at Tassilo, and for a moment, his anger softened. “Kirkwall showed no love for the elves, either. I knew Anders was supporting the underground and when I had the office of the Viscount, and the templars breathing down my neck, I thought it best to keep some distance between myself and Anders’ cause. You know… give it a fighting chance. Of course, having a templar in the family did not help matters in the least.”

“A templar?”

Saunière was not quite sure he believed Hawke’s version of the story, but then again, he had yet to speak to any eyewitnesses. He did know that certain members of the Orlesian templars in Val Royeaux were calling for his head and whether that command was in any way connected to the Seeker’s was yet to be seen.

“My brother. Joined the Order about a year before the Qunari uprising. We were never that close. What more is there to tell about that? And now that I am an open book, I was wondering if you would be willing to extend the same courtesy?”

“I am not sure what you mean… Ser Hawke.” Tassilo hesitated.

The professor could tell that for a moment his assistant wavered and pondered upon the most appropriate address.

“Please Tassilo. Call me Kess. Or Hawke. I know that templars need lyrium… and become addicted to the stuff.  Sister Tereza said you were once a templar, old man. Most older and retired templars that I have met can’t even put a simple sentence together. How did you escape that fate?”

 _Always the past_. _It was best kept as a memory, not to be turned up with prying questions and nosey inquiries._ He sat up straight and taking another sip of water, he cleared his throat to offer his carefully chosen answer.

“I was only with the Order for a few years. Yes I took the lyrium—I was well aware of the risks, but it is not something one can easily avoid.  Be it known that becoming a templar was not of my choosing. My father sent me to the Chantry, thought my interest in books reflected poorly on his superficial interpretation of family honour. New recruits and junior members of the order are not allowed anywhere near lyrium until after they are promoted. But you should know this. All the young recruits speak reverently of their first lyrium ritual and with great anticipation. But I saw them—the older ones with the shaking hands and milky eyes. I tried to hint, tried to point it out, but my warnings went unheeded. Oh not us… never us… So when it came time… I only took what I absolutely needed to get through my training. And after that… well… the Order certainly does not force feed us the stuff. Usually the opposite is the case and new templars have to be carefully watched as they have a tendency to overindulge… but I digress.”

“So why did you leave the Order?” Hawke asked.

Saunière folded his arms on his chest and sighed. “That is a detail for another day, on another boat, no doubt. What happened to this Anders character?”

Hawke inhaled deeply and then flicked way his spent butt. He stood and leaned on the side of the boat, watching the horizon. “I have no idea. When the fires were out and Orsino and the Knight-Commander were dead, he was gone. Did not even say good-bye. Not even a thank-you for saving his crazy ass. Escaped in the chaos. I left Kirkwall soon after. I have a few ears to the ground and no one has heard nary a rumour.”

“Do you suppose that will be the last you will hear of him?” Tassilo asked.

“Not by a long shot, my friend.”

Saunière did not like the sound of that. It was bad enough to have Hawke in his company. He would absolutely have to put his foot down in the event that the two former partners in crime decided to hook up for old-time sake. _Time to change the subject_ , he thought.

 “So exactly how does a family manage with an apostate and a templar?”

As the cog drifted down the Minanter, Hawke filled in more detail regarding his involvement in Kirkwall. He was not the typical self-righteous type of mage that he was used to interacting with. For the most part, the academics and mages rarely crossed paths at the University. However, there would be occasion when Saunière found himself seeking permission from the Blessed Rector to conduct research at the White Spire’s archives. He was interested in Tevinter culture, and the Circle mages, whether the Chantry liked to admit it or not, often possessed certain gems of historical documents from the region. No matter who he liaised with, there was always a lingering sense of moral superiority, like it was his fault that the Chantry prohibited them from leaving. Being a mage in Val Royeaux, could not be easy, he supposed. Hawke did not bear any of this. He was a charismatic chap, that was certain, and it did not surprise Saunière that he was able to influence the boneheads in Kirkwall. But there was something subtly different. He was a mage, but that was a quality no more or less equal than his blue eyes or dark hair. There was no sense that he was trying to promote the mage’s cause. While it was a refreshing point of view, Saunière did not want to become too comfortable or complacent. It was best to remain guarded. Kessler Hawke did not get far in Kirkwall on brawn alone. Was it a coincidence that Kirkwall’s political leadership had all died during Hawke’s time there?

Saunière always predicted political catastrophe in the Free Marches, but he could not have been more wrong on the issues that would inevitably instigate an insurrection. When other faculty members would meet during their weekly wine tastings, he would debate that a territory and taxation dispute between Starkhaven and Tantervale would lead the eventual disintegration. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine an apostate and former Grey Warden would destroy the Chantry. He was afraid of the rippling effect this would have. In the back of his mind, he felt that this was the butterfly that started the typhoon.

The pole driver steered the cog around a sharp bend. Here the waters stagnated, turning grey and muddy. The crew jostled into position, unlatching long barge poles and pushed the cog into a dense bank of fog, sending a bone-chilling shiver down Saunière’s spine. It was as if the boat resisted, like a cat refusing to run into the rain. The Minanter was still and soundless. Thick patches of tangled reeds clustered nearest the banks, standing tall and spiked, like an army of spearmen. And like the light, the fog muffled all sound, with the exception of the plop and swish of the poles pushing the boat through the dead water. And from the banks, ghostly structures appeared from behind the curtain of mists.

“The Necropolis,” Tassilo whispered, crouching against the side of the ship, as if to hide.

Soon, the marble crypts congested the banks with little regard for order or design. Every bit of hallowed ground was occupied. Some stood three stories high, others bore tall grotesque statues that were pock-marked and weathered, while the crypts of the lesser families cowered in the small spaces between their colossal neighbours. A figure in a black hooded cloak, lead a procession up a ragged set of steps, carrying a shrouded body on a stretcher. Saunière looked away. It was rude to watch a funeral when the dead’s name was not known.  

Eventually, the river turned again and the fog thinned, returning them to the sunshine and the warm breeze. Shanties and shacks along the banks became more frequent and sprawling. Their captain quickly responded to the increasing water traffic as they made their way into Nevarra City—their last stop before they would make for Ferelden.

‘Make way! Make way! Wouldn’t want the King’s leather to arrive late or harmed! Make way!”

The city was built upon both sheer slopes that flanked the Minanter. Dwellings nearest the banks were crowded and cobbled together with whatever flotsam had drifted downriver. The higher that Saunière’s gaze scanned up the steep banks, the more ornate the architecture became—painted tiles and terracotta roofs at first, until all he could see were row of marble and silverite manor homes, perched high atop the peak, overlooking the splendour of the river and its rivals across the way. Silently, the cog drifted toward a ramshackle dock and the captain worked with the longshoremen to tie up the vessel. Saunière did not bother to say a word as he disembarked. He knew he was being judged for his lack of sea-worthiness.

As he, Tassilo and Hawke wandered down the pier, Saunière felt his stamina return. The jelly in his legs hardened to bone and the solid ground pacified toxic tempest in his gut. He felt like a brand new man.

Saunière craned his neck. “We’re on the West flank, Let’s head up.” He pointed toward a set of rickety stairs that gradually ascended into marble grandeur.

“What’s up there?” Hawke asked.

“The National Library.”

~0oOo0~

“I’m sorry Ser, the Library is closed to visitors.” The templar posted at the front door was young and this was most likely one of his first assignments. Nervousness seeped from his pours and Saunière decided to test the quality of his recruit training.

“Closed! But this is a public institution, built during the Towers age by King Lüzbourg I, to ensure that every Nevarran subject had the opportunity to be literate. It was Nevarra’s means of maintaining independence from the Orlesians! You can’t just close the library! I demand to see the head Librarian. Tell her that a professor from the Université d’Orlais demands entry.”

The templar guard considered the request. He shifted his weight from one leg to another and Saunière was about to conclude that templar boot camp was not what it had once been—at least in Nevarra City.

“I am sorry Ser. By Order of the Head Librarian and Knight-Commander Tark, unless you have a pass, you are not permitted entry.”

“A pass? This is preposterous! I’ve been travelling for the past month. How was I to know about this additional bit of superfluous bureaucracy! Where is a respected scholar from the most prestigious institution in Thedas to obtain one of these… _passes_?”

“Only the Head Librarian can issue library passes, Ser.”

“And is there some arcane application process that you are forbidden to explain! I have _important_ research to complete. This is unacceptable.” In one last ditch attempt, Saunière continued his pretend tirade with a pointed finger. “Once University administration learns this, they will take it right to the Divine. This will not be the last you or your Knight-Commander will hear from me!”

“Ser, I’m just following orders. Please take it up with the Librarian.”

Saunière grumbled and stormed to a fountain in the centre of the court yard. He did not bother to admire the marble tangle of human and dragon that composed the hub of the water feature.

Hawke took to pacing. “I don’t suppose you know this Librarian?”

Saunière scowled, too angry to speak and decided that it was in his best interest to not raise his voice and draw more attention to himself. It was bad enough that there were a scattering of low-ranking templars here. For all he knew, there could be a contingent of Seekers lurking in the shadows. He thought that the Nevarran National Library would be a relatively safe place to hide out for the day, while he conducted research.

“Why in the Void are we here anyway? Shouldn’t we be booking passage for Ferelden? Do you think this is the best time to stick your nose in some books, old man?” Hawke asked, scanning each shadowy nook and crevice throughout the courtyard.

“My sword if you will, _garz_.” Saunière decided to employ the slang for _young man_ , a term he often heard students use with the freshmen. There was little honour or superiority associated with its meaning and it also contained a slight hint of intimidation, so he thought it a fair trade-off for the _old man_ moniker he was forced to endure. Of course _Champion, Mage_ and _Hawke_ all seemed too dangerous to utter aloud. He caught Tassilo raise an eyebrow as he said it… at least someone understood his intended insult.

“You know the deal. Get me to the Hero and then I’ll keep my end of the bargain.” Hawke smirked.

The comment made Saunière want to wrap his hands around Hawke’s neck and squeeze. “Well, if you can trust Tassilo, give it to him.”

“The professeur keeps his notes in the pommel, Ser.” Tassilo held out his slender, boney hand and waited for the sword. Hawke’s expression changed from haughtiness to confusion as he handed it over. For an individual who had been holding the object hostage, the hand-over seemed far too casual. Tassilo quickly opened the secret compartment and removed the notes that he had hidden there and handed the sword back to Hawke. Saunière wondered why he did not do this in the first place. Fate was a fickle thing.

“Many thanks, young Tassilo.” Saunière flicked a hand. “And keep that piece of crap sword. It belonged to my father. He would be perfectly offended that I gave it to a Fereldan apostate refugee who had a hand in destroying the Chantry.”

Hawke stared at the sword in disbelief, blinked and then shrugged, giving the sword a quick flourish as if to test its balance again. Saunière knew he’d not be disappointed. It was still a finely crafted weapon. He was glad to be free of it and no longer at Hawke’s mercy.

“And fret not, _Garz,_ you are more than welcome to follow us around like a lost pup. I am still a man of my word.”  Saunière crossed his legs and shuffled the papers in his hands. “We need to get in _there_ , to find out more about _this_.”

Hawke took a seat beside Saunière, and rested his forearms on his thighs and spit. “I am almost afraid of asking what this is all about. But please professor, tell me what dangerous knowledge the templar over there is guarding.”

“It is unlikely that he knows anything. Surely you are aware of this? Your brother was most likely sent on more than one blind mission.” Hawke shot him a look that affirmed that his ribbing had succeeded. “In Tylus canyon, we found markings and etchings in an ancient language we have yet to decipher. I am sure Andraste’s early followers made them. The art work alone alludes that she was no ordinary human.”

“Wasn’t she the bride of the Maker?” Hawke stated, crossing his arms, appearing disinterested in his exposition.  

“I think when deciphered, we will finally have proof that she was a mage.”

“Almost as explosive as the Kirkwall Chantry.” Hawke grinned.

 “Tassilo and I believe that this writing is an early Tevinter-Dalish hybrid, created by her early following, possibly written in code to prevent the magisters from destroying these early records. Inside the National Library is one of the oldest documents to have ever been recovered from the Imperium. Until recently, no one really cared about the manuscript. We have to find the key to the secret chamber in the ruin and I have a strong suspicion that this text will give us an important clue as to where we might find this key. And I need that manuscript to get started. It’s just a bit of simple research.”

“I wonder what they are guarding.” Tassilo asked

Before anyone could hazard a guess, a gust of wind blew a wayward paper toward them. Saunière picked it up and looked around. A flustered man approached.

“Many thanks, ser. Years of work at the mercy of the wind.”

Against his better judgement, he grinned and returned the research to the young scholar. “Professeur Berenger Saunière, Université D’Orlais.”

The young scholar gaped. “In the flesh? Such an honour! You wrote _The Tevinter Imperium, a History Revisited_. I’ve referenced it a number of times in my thesis. I have a thousand questions! But pardon me, I am Walden Goltz—a senior here at the Nevarran College. A pleasure to meet you Ser!” He shook Saunière’s hand vigorously, blushing. The winds of fate had apparently changed course.

Saunière did a brief round of introductions, resurrecting Arlen Greer from Tantervale, just in case.

“My dear Goltz, have you a library pass? What is the fuss?”

The wiry man rolled his eyes and quickly ordered his papers. “Rumour has it that, the Chantry is not granting anyone pass. Only the Head Librarian and the Order of the Seekers are permitted entry—at least this is all I have been hearing on campus anyway.”

“This is unheard of!” said Saunière incredulously as Goltz nodded in agreement. “Have you any idea why?”

Goltz’s eyes darted from side to side in suspicion. “They say that they are guarding a manuscript. The Chantry thinks that it is connected with the events in Kirkwall. Apparently, apostates and an assortment of blood mages have been caught trying to steal it. Two scholars were injured in the last incident… thankfully the culprit was unsuccessful—although she did manage to escape. Some say she brought a child! Can you imagine the level of desperation?”

A chill scurried down Saunière’s spine. He thought of the woman that Tereza had described that had come looking for the _Search for the True Prophet_.

“And what manuscript was that?” Saunière had a bad feeling.

 “The Tevinter Grimoire.”

Who was this other mage and why was she after the same text as he? The grimoire was so badly preserved that it could hardly be used as the Magisters had intended. There were few in Thedas with the ability to translate the text and even with the skill, none of the spells in that tome that were complete. It was merely a historical artifact, which is why it was safe to house it in a library and not under lock and key at the Chantry.

“Why close the library? Why not remove the book and take it somewhere safe?”

Goltz shrugged. “A good question. Many of us suspect that the thief cast some protective ward around it, that prevents the templars from removing it from the building.”

_Magic. Of course._

Goltz tapped his lip in thought. “It would do me a great honour if you would join me for dinner tonight. Your assistance with my current research would be invaluable.”

Saunière stood and bowed. “That is very kind of you. And where should I call upon you?”

“Pentaghast Hall, at the College. First floor. Room 109.”

“I shall see you later then.”

“The pleasure is mine, all mine Ser!” Goltz dashed toward the stairwell that led to the lower city, waving his papers excitedly.

“Well it is all set then. Tassilo, I want you to go to the lower city and find us a way to Cumberland. From there we can book passage to Jader. I will go to Goltz’s for dinner.”

Hawke furrowed his eyebrow. “And me?”

“I’d like you to break into the Library and get me that manuscript.”


	25. Connor

"A Grey Warden? What’s a Grey Warden, Outfader?"

She was perched on the railing at the foot of his bed.  If he had to hazard a guess, he supposed she looked no older than 11 or 12. She was frighteningly thin and wrapped her arms around her spindly legs as if to keep her bones together. Her messy blonde hair was tucked behind her ear and her face was drawn into a concerned frown. It wasn’t just her appearance that seemed unsettling—she also gnawed on her lip and rocking slightly. The gesture could have come across as maniacal but Connor understood it to reflect her thought process. He wiped the knife clean and stuck it back under his mattress.

It had not even been a full day since he had brought Endra over from the Fade. He had spent the previous day with Nuraya and as soon as he was able to slip away from Kalvindir’s gaze, he cut his flesh and completed the deed. There was no planning. No thought. He just pulled the knife and there she was. Although he had slept little the night before, exhaustion had yet to settle on him. An uncanny familiarity had come over him as he watched her pick a hang nail. Had he met her before? At this point, he supposed, it did not matter. They were now together, that was clear.

He was beginning to realize that their partnership was going to be far from easy.

“Grey Wardens kill Archdemons and end Blights.” He also expected demons to know these sorts of things. Connor rummaged through a pile of healing supplies that Kalvindir kept stored in the spare room and found a length of gauze. He cleaned up the remaining blood on his arm and stuffed the evidence in his pocket.

She exhaled, drawing a long breath. "She who comes from the Fade  won’t lead the Outfader astray." Her eyes were intensely green and they saw deep into Connor, deeper than anyone ever had. It was slightly unnerving, but there was a distinctly human quality about her stare that he connected with. She was company. Someone he could plan his escape with who did not try and convince him to remain with the Mage’s Collective. Her way of naming things was odd. But he guessed that demons must see things from their own perspective. He remembered nothing of the time he was possessed. This seemed like completely new territory.

"That's what all the demons say. Yeah, yeah, I know the drill Endra, you're going to bring me my greatest desires, without you, I am nothing."

Connor flopped back on the bed and the pale waif crawled beside him, still maintaining her tucked position. She nibbled on a finger nail and with the other hand picked at her big toe. It was Connor that had named her. When he first took her hand in the Fade and their minds acknowledged each other, he asked for her name, but all she did was shrug and look at him blankly, cocking her head like a bird. In his mind, all things must have a name—even dogs had names. It was the first act of taming, of controlling.

She reminded him a little of Chanya, the elven girl that he had befriended at the Circle. Since his arrival at Kalvindir’s, he thought about her quite often and found himself missing her company. Like all kids at the Circle, she had a sad story that involved poverty, squalor and ultimately, rejection. She spoke fondly of a sister, Endra, who’d tried to hide her when the templars arrived. So Connor named his second demon after her.  

"What’s a demon, Outfader?"

She was also hard to speak with.

He heard a thump from the other side of the wall and bolted upright.

 "You sure no one can tell that I brought you over?" he asked, once his anxiety subsided.

 From under her greasy bangs, she peered at him with her unnaturally green eyes and shook her head.  "There is no need to be ashamed, Outfader."

 Connor flopped onto his pillows and covered his face with the crook of his arm.  

 "Don’t be stupid, Endra"

He could feel heat at his feet, and he peeked from under his arm to see that she had set her hair aflame. She was starting to notice that this was how she preferred to express her displeasure and Connor had ceased to become alarmed at her outbursts. In fact he found it rather silly, another gesture that drew him closer to her.

“Will you tell the fat mage about the Endra?” She started sniffing the air.   

 “Are you kidding? If he found out about you, he’d send me straight to the Chantry." Connor was growing tired of trying to explain the secret, the rules of magic, the role of the templar and place of the mages. The order of things made little sense to her.

 He heard her sigh loudly, a signal of resignation. “The Endra does not like  this … this … Chantry.”

 "Not many of the Mages do. It’s the Chantry that keeps your and mind kind apart.” Connor lifted his head grinning impishly at Endra, “just admit that you need me just as much as I need you."

 She jumped onto the floor and padded over to the darkened window. Dawn would soon break and chase away the shadows. Leaning on the sill, she stood on tips toes, peering out as if in search of something. She wore a filthy white cotton dress and Connor wondered why she conjured such a sad and pathetic form. Surely she had the power to imagine herself at least a little cleaner.        

 "The Endra is bound to the Outfader while in this realm. But the Endra can choose leave, whenever the Endra chooses.”

 Connor snorted at that comment. So far, Endra was nothing more than a plaything. He felt no more affection toward her than he did the rubber ball he liked to toss against the wall at Kinloch Hold. Affection was something reserved for warm bodies. And so far, Endra was proving to be far from warm. It didn't matter. She helped him pass the time until he could decide what he was going to do next. If this was possession, he wondered what the fuss was all about. His first time seemed so dramatic. Perhaps he was just too young to properly wrap his head around it. And like everything the Chantry did, demonic possession seemed completely blown out of proportion. 

 Another muffled thump in the hallway forced the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. While he had the gumption to conjure Endra from the Fade, he was not in the least interested unleashing her. So far, the demon seemed quite contented to remain hidden.

 "Quick, disappear! I don't want Kalvindir to sense you!"

  She looked up at him languidly and in no hurry to move. Despite this, she appeared quite fidgety, as if her humanlike skin was as itchy as wool. She returned the bed and resumed perching.

 When the hallway quieted, Connor wove his fingers together behind his head and crossed a leg over a knee. Light was just starting to filter through the window and it would not be long before Kalvindir would pound on the door to wake him and rouse him for chores.

 "Maybe I'll go to Antiva and join the Crows. I’m sure they could use the services of a mage." He watched the shadows of the curtains play on the ceiling. 

 Endra cocked her head and looked at him with curiosity. "What are Crows, Outfader?”

 He rolled his eyes. Connor decided whether he was going to answer her question, Kalvindir's pounding knock broke the relative quiet. 

 "Leetle Markus! Get up! Time for chores."

 He bolted upright, his heart pounding, but Endra was gone. He swore he could see two little foot impressions on the coverlet. He pulled it taught just to cover his own tracks.

 ~0oOo0~

 

Connor tucked his arms up into his sleeves and followed Kalvindir through the Denerim streets. Dawn had barely broken and the stone buildings sparkled in a late spring frost. His breath billowed into the still morning air and he shivered beneath his thin cloak. There was nothing easy about chores with the Mages Collective. He could not wait to for Endra to return.  

Kalvindir turned and beckoned him down a street that led toward the docks.  "Come. I have meeting this morning. Very important for mages."  His voice came as a harsh whisper and Connor wondered who might overhear. The city had barely awoken and they were the only two on the street. The sound of Kalvindir's cane clicking on the cobblestone seemed magnified and Connor feared that a cranky shop keep might throw open his sash to chastise the pair of mages for prematurely waking the fine people of Denerim.

The dockyards proved to be even colder as the east wind blew off the Amaranthine and right through Connor's thin cotton shirt. All that could be heard was the creek and echo of water slopping against the hulls of the mighty ships in port. Buoys, hidden deep in an offshore fog, rang sporadically. Not even the black-market traders had yet set up their stalls. Nervously, Connor scanned for any signs of Mavis, the smuggler he had met with Revik when they had first arrived in Denerim. In the back of his mind, he felt uneasy about being so exposed on the quay. He hoped that Revik was long gone. It would not be in his best interest to hang about after his confrontation with the templars at the Pearl.

At the very end of the quay they found a dwarf, leaning against a barrel, with his chin tucked into his chest and snoring softly.

Kalvindir cleared his throat.

The dwarf snorted and shook awake. "By the stone! Sodding topsiders"

"Where is Drognik?" Kalvindir asked, leaning on his cane. "I've come to collect my shipment."

"Right. About him." The dwarf's messy blonde beard looked as if small creatures had been nesting in it. Connor had met his fair share of dwarves and all took a certain amount of pride and craftsmanship with their beards, spending as much time with braiding and ornamentation as they did drinking ale. Perhaps this dwarf was one of those surfacers that he had heard so much about. The angular tattoos that decorated his weatherworn face suggested that he was most likely one of the castless as well. Connor could at least relate to that.

"I'm Agnir. Well met Mage. I am Drog's brother. Unfortunate news, but my brother was killed a fortnight past."

"My condolences. He was very much respected by Mage's Collective. His loss will be deeply felt."                                   

"Aye. And I suspect you might be interested in the manner of his death."

Kalvindir raised an eyebrow and the dwarf continued as he stuck his thumbs under a set of dirty suspenders and rocked on his heels.

"Seems that the Chantry has cracked down on lyrium smuggling."

"The Chantry always threatens to crack down and for years, nothing changes. Lyrium still flows into Ferelden the same as it always has." Kalvindir was starting to appear annoyed.

"You heard of what happened to Kirkwall?"

Kalvindir nodded.

"No lyrium is to come into Denerim without proper documentation. And I'll give you three guesses who issued that edict. Anyone caught smuggling..." the dwarf pulled a finger across his neck.

"I'm very sorry to hear that. Surely this will make your work very much difficult. Did Drog happen to mention that I have already paid for this shipment?"

"Indeed. His ledger is quite safe. Now that down payment you mentioned—"

"Down payment?" Kalvindir's statement came out more as a shout than a question. "I paid in full."

"The lyrium trade has suddenly become more lucrative, my friend." He patted a barrel beside him. "You come up with some more sovereigns and I will continue to hold this cask for you."

"And how much more sovereigns?"

"Let's just say that the cost of smuggling lyrium from Orzammar has just doubled."

"Doubled?"

Connor could see that Kalvindir was about to lose his temper. The older mage's face went beet red as he marched away, swearing beneath his breath. When he returned, he seemed to have sufficiently composed himself enough to continue with the negotiation.

"And what if I chose to take my business elsewhere?"

Agnir grinned. "Would it surprise you to learn that I am the only merchant in Denerim who has the balls to sell undocumented lyrium? Drog's death was intended as a strong message to anyone else wanting to pick up his slack. Seems like the dwarves from Dust Town don't have the stomach or the balls to make an insane amount of coin. So, you bring me more gold and I will sell you the lyrium. It's simple business. You demand, I supply.  The more difficult it is for me to supply means that I must charge more to recoup my investment."

Leaning on his cane with a hand folded over the other, Kalvindir thought over the situation. Connor did not think he had much of a choice, but then again, he did not know much about the illegal lyrium trade. For a split second, he thought of conjuring Endra and having her intimidate the dwarf, thinking that a bit of fear might drive down the cost, then his reason returned. But Kalvindir's skills were such that he could permanently rid him of Endra. The demon was his ticket out of Denerim and he concluded that she best remain a secret for the time being.

"Very well.” Kalvindir’s voice was grave. “I need some time to raise funds. Is this limited time offer?"

"I'll hold it for you until sundown tomorrow ... and then it goes to the next mage with deeper pockets."

"Come Leetle Markus. We have much work today."

Connor chased a determined Kalvindir down the pier. The sunlight sparkled from the sea as if it had been sprinkled in Fade dust. 

 

~0oOo0~

 

When Agnir was out of earshot, Kalvindir unleashed his temper. From this outburst, Connor learned that keeping Endra a secret was a wise choice. He would not want to face Kalvindir's wrath, not for all the lyrium in Orzammar. The old mage spit as he raged in his mother tongue and pushed aside the crowds now beginning to make their way to the pier. The outburst embarrassed Connor, but he chose to keep his head down rather than to try to intervene. At the Circle, such acts of heroism were often met with the back of a hand and he knew better than to interrupt a mage in the middle of a temper tantrum. He feared for the burly man balancing the sack over his shoulder, who stood his ground and refused to ignore the agitated mage. Connor cringed as he set down the sack and threatened Kalvindir with a meaty fist.

Connor ducked into an alley and watched Kalvindir push his way through, not even bothering to acknowledge the threat and he disappeared down Oyster Street still muttering curses beneath his breath.

"The man he picked up his sack and returned it to his shoulder. “You tell that arsehole to watch where he steps..."

Connor nodded and dashed down the street. This might be the perfect time for me to escape.

In his head, came a voice, clear as a bell, but quite separate from his own.

** Not yet. **

Connor felt as naked as he was the day he was found by Revik and Yaleen. Endra could read his mind? He was under the impression that when she was not in his presence that she was very much absent. Did she live in his head? That idea made his stomach churn.

** The Outfader brought me here. The Endra is always here.   **

Connor was quickly developing a headache. Between Endra and Kalvindir, he was of a mind to invite the both of them to an empty alleyway and let them have it out with one another.

** The Endra would win such a fight. **

Girlish laughter echoed inside of his head, causing the pain to flare.

Connor saw that Kalvindir was making his way to the Pearl and appeared slightly more relaxed. At least he was no longer ranting. He could not imagine the madam being at all comfortable with a ranting mage at her establishment.

** The Endra will stop. Let me watch. **

 Connor considered the deal and was about to verbally acknowledge it. Just before he caught the potential faux-pas, he heard Endra again.

**The Endra and the Outfader will meet again when the moon is high.**

And just like that, Connor was alone with his thoughts, just in time to hear his name whispered from a darkened corner. Briony was hiding in a dark alley, on the way to the Pearl.

"Go get Kalvindir,” she motioned, “that loon was too busy ranting to hear me."

Connor reached for Kalvindir's arm before the older mage could open the front door to the Pearl and deflected his irritable reaction with a sway to his head, as if to point in Briony's general direction. And just like that, the storm had passed and Kalvindir was composed and polite.

"How long it take you and Saranna to raise fifty sovereigns?"

Briony looked particularly beautiful this morning. Her hair was piled high and a thick ringlet hung over her shoulder. Knowing how she earned her coin, Connor wondered how she managed to maintain her coiffure. Perhaps there was magic involved. His eyes were drawn again to the rosy swells above the shock of lace at her chest and the smell of her perfume was intoxicating. Her arms were crossed and her hands were gloved. A perfectly arched eyebrow responded to Kalvindir's out-of-the-blue request.

"Price of lyrium double this morning. Templars starting to flex their muscle, since the incident at Kirkwall."

Briony stuck her hands onto her hips and rolled her eyes. "We can get you ten by tomorrow ... but you’ll have to sell us your lyrium at cost."

Kalvindir nodded begrudgingly. "Leetle Markus and I have to collecting donations. Aye aye aye ... mages are always broke. Never any coin in savings! Collective needs alternative revenue stream ..." Every time he started speaking about matters of coin, Connor stopped listening. His attention momentarily returned to Briony's chest but before he became completely carried away, he noticed her expression darken.

"Have you not heard the news?" she asked as she swept her hair away from her shoulder.

Both mages shook their head in stunned acknowledgement. She looked suspiciously in all directions and backed deeper into the shadows of the alley. She lowered her head and whispered, "They have your friend, Kalvindir."

"Who?"

She cocked her head and motioned to Connor. "The Hero. Templars took her to the Chantry last night."

Connor's eyes widened like saucers. The first thing he thought was that the Chantry had finally tracked him down and she somehow got in the middle. His stomach knotted.

"Has she been arrested?" asked Kalvindir.

Briony shrugged. "Some say she attacked a templar with blood magic. Some say she was working with a bloodmage and others say she was attacked and the templars ended up getting her out of a right mess."

Kalvindir stroked his beard thoughtfully. "The rumour will spread like an infection. I will get to bottom of story. You tell anyone who want to hear the truth ... to send them to Mages Collective." He turned abruptly and motioned for Connor to follow. Before he stormed away, he abruptly turned back to Briony. "You tell anyone who want story to bring donation!"

~0oOo0~

 

 Back at the hovel, Kalvindir was pacing and had resumed speaking in his native tongue. This time, he was thinking out loud. About what specifically, Connor could not tell. He knew little of the languages spoken north of the Anderfels, but took a wild guess that he was working out a plan that involved retrieving Nuraya and making a bit of coin at the same time. Connor had become increasingly fidgety as the afternoon waned. Truth be told, he was anxious for night to fall, so he could go to bed and resume his discussions with Endra. Her absence during the day had become palpable and he thought this somehow had contributed to his sudden build-up of nervous energy. His left knee pumped up and down almost maniacally. Kalvindir was so preoccupied with his own thoughts that the rhythmic thump of his foot did not interrupt his ruminations.

The pacing mage snapped his fingers, turned on one foot and grinned. "Ah ha! Yes! Of course! How stupid of Kalvindir to overlook."

Connor looked at him expectantly and said nothing.  He waited.

"Leetle Markus!"

"What?"

"You!"

"Me?"

"Yes! You!"

Connor was confused.

Kalvindir rolled his eyes impatiently. "You will go and see Nuraya and check and seeing if she is okay. Make sure Templars are treat her nice. Maybe help her escape."

Connor stared into the fire and tossed bits of refuse that were scattered in front of the hearth. He looked into the fire and not at Kalvindir. "Oh yes. I'll just waltz right over the Chantry, ring the bell and they will take me right to her room!"

"You fall down and get bump on head?" Kalvindir mussed Connor's hair condescendingly.

He tried to duck the contact but the fat mage was quicker. "Have you forgotten," Connor's voice turned into a harsh whisper, "that my name is not Leetle Markus?"

"You have disguise. Turn into leetle bird... go visit!" His arms mimed wings and flapped momentarily. The implications and the weight of what he had just suggested cancelled out the potential for laughter.

It was not the act of shape-shifting that scared him; it was his unfamiliarity with the rules and the spell's limitations. The last thing he wanted was to end up naked and dangling on a window ledge ... a window that belonged to the Chantry.

**I'll warn you before the spell is ready to wear off** .

_Where did she come from_ ? Connor scratched his head, as if it would make the voice stop. There was only so much he could keep track of.

"You want me to go now?" Connor heard himself ask. Originally, the question had been intended for Endra, but he was glad that it made sense to Kalvindir. This voice inside his head thing was going to become quite tricky if he was not to appear stark raving mad or worse—possessed.

From behind he could hear the clink and clatter of Kalvindir at his workstation.

"Go when dark. Go rest. I come find you when time is best."

Connor stood and brushed the stray wood-shavings off his trousers. The heat of the flame felt inviting, but his mood had turned sullen. Without a word, he did what he was told.

~0oOo0~

 

The moon was wide and white, like a horror-stricken eye. To a pair of lovers, Connor supposed, it might have shone on only them, illuminating their undying love. Perhaps to a Senior Enchanter back at Kinloch Hold, it would have signaled the potential of all that could be without a Chantry. But to Connor, on that cold spring night, Mistress Moon illuminated nothing and only magnified his fear.

Little wings flicked and flittered in the cold night. There was nothing else on the breeze, save a passing bat that would give him a wide berth. Struggling against a steady wind high over Denerim, he flew toward the Chantry. There was a warm glow of lamp and candle that dimly lit the city and thousands of columns of smoke from those who wished to chase away the evening chill. He imagined that somewhere a boy his age was nestled into bed, sleeping dreamlessly.

This was the first time Connor had the chance to admire the scope of the City. He knew it was the largest in Ferelden but he was impressed at how far the streets and outliers crept beyond the edges of his vision. For a fleeting second, he forgot his fear and nerves and allowed himself to feel bird-like and glided through the air currents.

For the first time, he realized that even birds felt pain. The bones that had once been his shoulders were beginning to ache and if he did not have a particular destination he would have held his span out stiffly and allowed the wind to take him. Not tonight. He worked through the burning and concentrated on his destination, his last refuge in Thedas.

He had not yet figured out why Endra was so eager to help.

** The Endra is near, Outfader. **

Adjusting to this utter lack of privacy was difficult. 

**Outfader still has spell to spend. But fly faster. Make haste, not waste!**

He preferred it when she appeared to him as the sad little waif. At least there was an obvious distinction between his thoughts and hers. Obviously, she could not feel the strain of flying against the wind, either.

Chantry spire loomed so close that he could see through the windows.

He landed and hopped across a ledge. From inside the room, he could hear the muffled echo of speech. When he focused his attention, it sounded garbled and he could not understand a word of it.

_ Wonder what language they are speaking? _

**They speak Fereldan, Outfader. Don't recognize your own tongue? Oh. The Outfader can now only understand the chatter of birds.**

Girlish laughter echoed through his mind. Connor flicked his tail in irritation. He could not understand Fereldan? How could that be?

**The Endra will help.**

There was a moment of silence and then she spoke again. 

**These are Andraste's soldiers! This is the enemy of the Mage! This is the enemy of the Endra!**

Between not understanding his own language and this new rage of Endra's he did not know what to think. _This is the Chantry, Endra. I told you about it. You have to tell me what you hear._

Through the window, Connor watched two templars share a meal, but appeared to be arguing. He felt as though a thin veil separated him from understanding what they were saying. _This bird spell is shite. W hat are they talking about?_

**They speak of a  Hero. The Hero of this country.**

 Connor cheeped with impatience.

**Andraste's soldiers argue about who has the authority to put her to the question. That dark-haired one, thinks that he should detain her and be the first to question her.**

 Endra's voice cut off at the same time the dark-haired templar slammed his fist on the table. He threw his napkin on the table and stormed out, leaving his fairer peer to bury his head in his hands in what appeared to be frustration.

**The Dark-haired soldier is from Orlais. He does not like that soldier from Kirkwall.**

Connor could not give a rat’s ass about Chantry politics. _Where is she? Did they mention that?_

**The Outfader must fly. The Outfader must find the Hero of this country.**

Connor flittered from window to window. In one, a Chantry sister knelt before a private altar and prayed. In another, he caught a templar and a sister in a compromising state of undress. Just when he thought that he covered the entire face of the Chantry he spied a dimly lit window near the foundation. It was more like a sewer grate than a window. There was no glass, just bars. He flew in and perched on the stone ledge. A chirp issued from his beak in an expression of surprise. Had he been in his human form, he would have exclaimed "Nuraya!" She was sleeping on a small bed, her eye blackened and a bloodied bandage wrapped around her head. The commotion must have roused her. She winced and opened her eyes, making eye contact with Connor. His hopping became more frantic.  

**It is her! It is her! Outfader! It is her!**

Connor swore she had recognized Nuraya, but Endra interrupted that thought. 

**Fly home. It's time.**

 

 


	26. Kessler

Kessler had followed Tassilo and _Le Professeur_ through the narrow Nevarran streets to the campus. They were lost in conversation with the Nevarran student, too loquacious to even notice their shadow. On any other occasion, he supposed he would have appreciated Nevarra city’s ancient architecture, the spires that stretched to the sky and the stone arches tangled in ivy. Saunière stopped at the entrance to the domed University, took out his notebook from a pocket inside his jacket and scribbled his notes.

With his best Hightown affectation, Kessler waved at the three men, then called out a friendly greeting, in a way one might greet a long lost acquaintance. "Would you pardon me one moment Ser Goltz, while I speak with Uncle Saunière in private?" He put his arm around Saunière’s shoulder and walked him out of earshot from the Nevarran.

Saunière’s expression of subtle derision was typical, one that irked Kessler because a condescending remark often followed. He contained his frustration in his harsh whisper. “What in the Void are you doing here? I thought I told you to break in to the library and get me that Grimoire!”

In a tone that could best be described as a growl, Kessler said, "I am not going in blind! You have to let me speak with him." He looked over Saunière’s shoulder to see Goltz shoot them a suspicious glance. Kessler grinned and waved.

"Don't be ridiculous! No one can know that you are about to break in to the library. Within a day every Seekers from Nessum will be breathing down our necks!"

"Trust me." Kessler smirked, playing with his chin. "You're going to have to play by my rules now, if you want that book."

Saunière let out an exasperated sigh and stepped aside.

Kessler cleared his throat and approached Goltz. "Ser. Might I have just a moment of your time? We are only in Nevarra for one night and since the library is now considered off-limits, I was wondering if you'd do me the honour of describing it for me?"

"Ser?" Goltz asked, as he tucked his arms into the sleeves of his hooded cloak and thoughtfully considered Kessler’s request.  

"Professeur Saunière and I are co-authoring a book on comparative architecture in Thedas and we’re responsible for a chapter about the libraries in Nevarra, Val Royeaux and Minrathous. I'd hate the Nevarran section to be ... sparse. I have considerably more information on the others. That is why I accompanied the esteemed Professor," Kessler grabbed the professor's shoulder and squeezed. "All I need is ten minutes of your time and I shall be on my way. The Professor and I had a bit of a disagreement that my asking would be considered too rude and forthright. Please understand that any impropriety is mine and mine alone. We will be sure to reference you as well." He had spent enough time in Hightown to know how to put on airs. What he would give for a filthy pub, a cheap drink and a pinch of tobacco.

"The pleasure is all mine!” Goltz replied, his enthusiasm obvious.  “And to think—my name cited as a reference in Professeur Saunière’s publication. A scholar could not ask for a greater honour!"

Kessler almost regretted the ruse. The old man's ego was already bloated. He pretended to agree.

Goltz smiled smugly at Saunière. "Many consider the National Library to be the gem of the continent. You have to admit that the Cathaire Library does not hold a candle to the wonders of ours..."

 

~0oOo0~

 

Kessler’s destination was a ray of dim light that shone through the storm drain. He had made it inside the library. 

He had spent the better part of an hour listening to Goltz's detailed description of the building. Feigning rapt attention was much easier than resisting the urge to ask what he needed to know: Are there alternative entrances?  How many templars are on guard?

Goltz described all four levels in superfluous and tedious detail. It was of little consequence that the marble had been hewn on the coast of Rialto or that a team of woodworkers from the Donnarks, north of the Anderfels. From time to time, Kessler slipped in requests for interesting anecdotes, hoping a secret chamber or hidden door might be raised in passing. Goltz had to stop and catch his breath, and then told him the tale of how the interior fountain once flooded in the Great Deluge following the Fourth Blight.

Kessler allowed the student to resume his frenetic recounting, feeling the need to dodge the mist of spit that issued from his lips as he continued to articulate the historical significance of the National Library. Eventually, he did learn that at the base of the courtyard fountain was a storm drain that was large enough to accommodate a man and snaked its way into the library to connect with a fountain there.

His plans to make it to the fourth floor were sketchy at best; his plans to liberate the book from the ward were non-existent.

As he stood and contemplated the iron grate, gravel crunched from behind. He turned and placed a finger over his lips and gestured for silence. Armoured boots echoed above them then disappeared into the distance.

When he was certain that the coast was clear, he turned to Tassilo.

"I thought you said you were light on your feet."

The Professor's elven assistant looked down at his feet and shrugged. Of course, it was Saunière’s idea to send him. Trust was going to be hard earned from both sides, that was clear. But in all honesty, Kessler did not mind Tassilo's company especially when he was away from  _Le Professeur_ . If Saunière thought that Tassilo's presence would be construed as an annoyance, Kessler was glad to have proved him wrong. He had taken a liking to him, when he was not too busy defending the old man's frequently-wounded pride. It was nice to be in the company of an elf who bore no judgements toward magic, unlike Fenris. And unlike Merrill, he was not the sort to naively embrace danger. Tassilo was as reasoned as he was even-tempered, both good qualities to have while sneaking in a library to steal an old book from the Imperium. Kessler got the sense that Tassilo considered this task to be as scholarly as sitting at a desk with a quill and parchment.

"I apologize, Ser Kessler. I am not in the proper attire. The Seekers confiscated my leathers back in Nessum and these boots are ill-fitting and not designed for sneaking. Being that my hearing is more acute than yours, I suggest we hurry as the templar are ascending up a flight of stairs on the other side of the library."

Kessler raised his hands above him and tested the grate. It wobbled with little effort. A reassuring sign.

As he hoisted himself out of the sewer, it became apparent that Goltz's bragging fell short of the library's true grandeur.  Each of the four floors faced  a courtyard and were fenced with marble balustrades that depicted an endless procession of scholars and dragons. In the centre of the main floor, a cascading water echoed from a central fountain. Kessler’s eyes drew upwards, past each of the grand staircases to the domed roof, where silver and gold mosaics twinkled in the moonlight. Brightly painted frescoes and intricate friezes decorated every surface not stacked with books. It was nothing like the dusty, dank libraries he had visited before. Besides the artwork, there were polished marble shelves, floor to ceiling windows and the most awe inspiring chandelier. The contrast between the slimy sewer drain and the foyer’s opulence was not lost on him either, and put all of Hightown to shame.

Once Kessler helped Tassilo from the subterranean tunnel, they ducked into a darkened portico.

"I hope Goltz was right and there is only one templar on patrol." Kessler craned his neck to check his surroundings.

"I don’t think the grimoire will suddenly become unbound and walk out of here on its own." Tassilo whispered.

"That’s my job."

The library was built in the shape of a pentagon. Goltz had said that each side represented a territory and housed a rare book specimen from that area: Orlais, Ferelden, Tevinter, Arlathan and of course, Nevarra. Kessler guessed they had found shelter in the Ferelden portico—as he noticed an old manual on Mabari breeding. He continued to survey his surroundings and tried to work out how he was going to make his way up three flights of stairs, in an open stairwell no less, to the fourth level. This, he’d been told, was where texts on magic were kept. When he had asked why they had not been housed at the Circle, Goltz had told him that these books were not practical manuals, but were historically significant artifacts. Kessler was not sure he appreciated the difference—manual or precious artifact—he was going to steal it all the same. Besides the Tevinter Grimoire, better known in Minrathous as the  _Provectus Magia,,_ the library also kept the only copy of a text that informed the aristocratic families in Nevarra on the habits and behaviours of dragons. From the relative safety of the portico’s shadow, Kessler was not quite sure why he was recalling these details instead of focusing on how he and Tassilo were going to get up the stairs without being seen.

With measured steps, he skulked to a curtained window and tucked himself behind the velvet to blend in better with the shadows. After he unintentionally rustled the drapery, Tassilo, crouched behind a trestle table, shushed him.

Barely beneath his breath, Tassilo said. "He's coming back."

_Please don't fucking look at the bottom of these drapes. There is nothing more conspicuous than a couple set of feet under the curtains._

While their helmets offered solid protection, he knew that they restricted a templar’s vision. He remained absolutely still, praying silently to no one in particular that they were well-blended into the velvet and shadows.

The keenness of Tassilo’s hearing was impressive. Kessler waited in silence for an agonizingly long time, but finally, he caught the distinctive clank of metallic footsteps approaching. His eyes followed the templar as he descended the stairs to complete his rounds. Darkness made it difficult to identify him— there was nothing unique or distinguishable about him.

_He’s another run of the mill templar, another average pain in the ass._ Someday, Kessler feared of running into his brother.

The hairs on the back of Kessler’s neck stood up when the templar marched toward them. Before he came too close, he stopped in front of a bookshelf and took out a thick leather-bound volume. It had not been in Kessler’s experience that templars had a penchant for reading. Instead of flipping through the pages, he tucked it under his arm and fiddled with something on a shelf. Kessler squinted and strained in the dim light to figure out what he was up to. The bookcase swung aside and the templar stepped in, closing it behind him.

_Goltz didn't tell me about that._

Kessler slipped from behind the curtain and made for the staircase. "Quick! Now is our chance."

Tassilo followed on cat-like feet.

They flew to the top of the stair and dove under a long wooden table to catch their bearings and breath. Kessler watched Tassilo's expression and he appeared confident that the coast was clear—for the time being.

The top level was ringed with a marble bannister, carved in ivy and vine. The chandelier crystals sparkled in the moonlight despite their candles having been extinguished. A pulsing sensation, akin to a dull throb emanated from an energy field that pulled Kessler’s attention to his left. He turned and spied the unassuming tome on a bookstand in a portico. The protective ward was a massive transparent bubble, only distinguishable because it bent the watery moonlight in peculiar angles. A faint ripple of electric energy caught Kessler’s attention from time to time. It was unlike anything Kessler had ever seen before, and he thought he had pretty much seen it all. 

A plan was starting to hatch. He pointed to a floor to ceiling window on his right and whispered to Tassilo, "Go see if you can open it."

Tassilo shot him a perplexed look but complied, and slipped into the shadows like ink and wove his way through the pillars of light to the far side of the building. When he arrived at the window, he gestured a warning, signalling that a templar approached.  Kessler remained crouched and hidden beneath a reading table, hoping a group of them did not decide to show up and play Wicked Grace over top.

This time two templars arrived and headed for the grimoire.

"The First Enchanter from the Circle is set to arrive tomorrow," said the taller of the two. The quality of his armour and weaponry told Kessler that he was most likely the senior templar.

"I don't understand the delay, Commander. To tolerate blood magic is against everything the Chant of Light teaches us.  Maker knows what devilry this could attract." The templar turned to the ward but approached it no further.

"There is no one qualified within a league of here. I had to send an urgent message all the way to the Cumberland Circle. These things take time. In the meantime, it is your responsibility to ensure that nothing escapes from the field."

"Aye, Commander." the Knight saluted and took his position in front of the tome. The Commander turned on his heel and opened another hidden doorway, not two feet where Tassilo remained hidden. Kessler, still on all fours under the table, considered his next move. He dared not cast a spell. Even if he managed to put this one to sleep, he was not comfortable with the odds of having a whole platoon on his tail.

Just as he had run out of fresh ideas, the templar grabbed his neck and cried out in pain. He shook his head and then rattled into a heap onto the floor. Tassilo gave Kessler a thumbs up.

Kessler wasted no time dashing over to the opened window, "What in the Void just happened?"

"Poison darts, never leave home without them. Always keep a blow dart in my boot. Never know when you’re going to find yourself in a pinch."

"Impressive. But I never took you for a cold-hearted killer." He leaned on the window sill and surveyed the terracotta rooftops and white stuccoed buildings that descended to the river's edge. A cool spring breeze drifted in, enough to stir the drapes.

Tassilo followed Kessler toward the force field. "Oh, he is quite alive. A sleep agent and paralysis poison. He'll be out for a good hour."  He pulled the dart from the templar's neck. "Sister Tereza may have given you and Saunière some healing tonics, but I have an in with her cook."

 "Her cook?" Kessler scratched behind his ear as he continued to study the field. 

 "Her brother is into black market herbs."

The more Kessler learned about Sister Tereza, the more he liked her. For a blind Chantry sister, she had proven to be extraordinarily helpful. "Indeed." Kessler took a deep breath and stood as close as he could to the magical ward. "Well, Tass my friend, I suggest you resume your post at the window. Don't hesitate a hasty exit things go awry."

"Awry, Ser?"

"I have no idea what I am getting into. If the templars have no effect and are requiring the expertise of a First Enchanter, then I'm certain that I'm already in over my head. So don't be afraid to jump if things get too ... out of control."

 "Good luck, then." Tassilo gave Kessler’s shoulder a firm squeeze and stepped over the unconscious templar to return to his post.

Kessler approached the field and allowed his hands to hover over the periphery. The one thing that he learned from Merrill was how to appreciate the feel of magic. Anders was too cerebral. He often went in blazing, and toward the end, Kessler wondered what was left of him and if it was merely some Fade spirit at the helm calling the shots. And in the weeks leading up to the infamous Chantry incident, Kessler didn’t think there was much of Anders left at all. But Merrill, despite her shortcomings told him that Dalish mages are taught at an early age to see with their inner eye. This sense of sight had little to do with vision, than it was of gathering an impression.

He recalled one time on the Wounded Coast when she had suspended him upside down inside a protective ward, while she shouted, “Can you feel that? It's Dalish! It's a much different sensation than any Spell from the Four Schools!” Even though his senses were barely hanging on to the contents of his stomach, he conceded, after much dizziness and nausea that she had a point. The spell felt very Dalish. 

The force field in the library was certainly not Dalish, nor did it resemble anything practiced in the Circle either. There was a hint of wildness, not completely unlike blood magic, but not altogether similar either. What startled him the most was there was something distinctly familiar about it.  Even at a distance, the protective ward invited him inside. He expected it to repel him away. But it didn’t—it called to him, cajoled him over, and teased him even.

_Fuck, that's strange. But what if it’s a trap, what if I am the fly buzzing around the web?_

There was only one way of knowing for sure—as he could imagine no other way—and that would be to enter the field.

_Before I try that, crazy as it is… why not try something else, for shits and giggles. Try dispelling the thing first. Test out the basics; get them out of the way. Perhaps I’ll get lucky._

Kessler chuckled under his breath.

_Not a chance, Kess. You don't have a lucky bone in your body._

He had to be extra careful as he was not carrying any lyrium and the extent of his inner reserves would have to suffice. That realization came as no comfort.  

Despite this anxiety, he decided to conduct a couple of experiments that wouldn’t tax his energies. Dispel was a basic spell—even mage-children knew how to perform it. He took a deep breath and settled into a familiar concentration, drawing light from the depths of his being and directed it to emanate from his solar plexus region. Inside his mind, the magical ward had manifest as a thick fog. He tuned the spell and intensified his concentration, expecting to break through the haze.

The haze clung like thick storm clouds, churning and grey, immediately swallowing any light he radiated. It was obvious that this spell was impervious to a simple Dispel. He took a step back and scratching his chin in thought, mulling over another tactic to use. He thought of one, unsure whether it was worth the effort, but he was running out of options.

His father once told him that when mages bind items with magic, a trick often employed was to enchant the container, as opposed to the object. In this case, he wondered if the book stand had been magically bound and was in fact, trapping the book. Especially in cases where the object was considered to be important or of value, such as with this volume, the breaking of the magical bond often resulted in the destruction of the object. This was considered as a fail-safe. If the casting mage could not have the object, then no one would. Had the mage bound the book to the stand, then the book would have been destroyed in the reversal of the spell. Sometimes a good jolt of telekinetic energy was all an object needed to free itself from a magical bond.

He cracked his knuckles. This was a spell that required precision and finesse, both of which Kessler prided himself on possessing. All he had to do was throw a focused ball of energy at the book—and only the book. The resulting collision might ding the book’s corners, but he believed  _Le Professeur_ would be able to handle that.

_And if not, I can always dent that ridiculous hat of his with the book before we part ways._

He balled his hand into a fist, his fingers digging into the fleshy parts of his palm and crossed his arm over his chest, throwing the resultant energy foreword.

_I should have been an archer. Damn my aim is good. Watch out Bianca._

His spell hit the protective field and then ricocheted. It returned with dizzying speed, striking him right in the gut and sending him backward onto his behind.  

As soon as his rump connected with the artfully crafted parquet flooring, he blurted, “Fuck the Maker!”

Tassilo, still waiting at the window, called over to ask if he was okay. Kessler acknowledged with a grunt, as he jumped back to his feet, brushing himself off. This was going to take more than simple counter-spells, he realized and he was going to outwit this thing, Maker, Chantry, Andraste—all be damned. Before launching into his next assault, he listened for the tell-tale sound of approaching templars. Apart from the faint tinkle of crystal and the sound of the fountain below him, the library was as silent as a tomb. For the time being, he believed he had gotten away with using magic. He would not have many more chances before someone smartened up.

_A stupid fucking spell that sticks a book to a measly wooden stand will not outwit me. That's it. I’m pulling out all the stops._

He pushed his sleeves up his arm and decided that it was time to get into the belly of the beast. It was time to penetrate the field. He half-expected it repel him, to launch him flying half-way across the library, but it continued to tug at him, call his name like a half-sated women.

Hesitantly, he reached out at the energy field, catching faint glimpses of misty tendrils pulsating across the invisible surface. He braced himself, still expecting to be thrown back on his arse again as he approached it. The air warmed as he approached in calculating steps. Static, accompanied by a tingling sensation pricked up the hairs on his arms. The seductive invitations returned and swelled even stronger as he passed its boundaries.

He stretched out an arm, reaching through the glowing field. A vague tingling sensation, somewhat akin to the way his hairs reacted to wool, scurried up his arm. He paused, then stepped forward, the front half of his body entered. When his ears passed the thin glowing borders, he heard a faint buzzing in his ears and then absolute silence swallowed him. Even in the relative quiet of the darkened library, there was still ambient noise, the sound of the wind through the windows, the echo of the fountain and of the city outside. But inside the ward it was as still and quiet as death and hot as a flaming demon.

And there sits the book, just ready for the taking.  _Could it be that easy? I doubt the answer is yes._ Kessler tentatively reached out for the tooled leather binding. A gilded sun encircled a six-pointed star. His hand froze with uncertainty.

"And why do you doubt yourself, Champion?"

Kessler spun around on his heel, his heart in his throat. And there she was.

"Well, well, what have we here?" She is just as she was on Sundermount—wild, white hair, a figure too perfect for a woman of her reported age, crossed arms, and lips pursed in a wry smile. He looked around with suspicion, worried that her presence would draw a host of templars to the area. 

"Worry not child, for nothing is what it seems on this side of my magic wall."

"Your magic wall? I find it highly unlikely that the Witch of the Wilds has nothing better to do than to sneak about the libraries of Thedas and steal books. Seems so unlike you." As much as her presence was a relief, she unsettled him all the same.

"You know me too well ...  perhaps it is time that I change my approach.  Perhaps I’m becoming too predictable. Can't have that."

She slinked over to the grimoire and traced her armoured finger over the burnished symbol on the cover.

 "It appears that Morrigan is the one with a voracious appetite for reading. I was the one who managed to slow her down. I might add that I am terribly impressed that you arrived so quickly. I was beginning to think that you were never going to get here."

 "You've been waiting for me?"  he asked incredulously. He wasn’t sure why he found that particular statement surprising, as the entire scene was bordering on crazy.

 "I quite like getting you out of sticky situations. I seem to do that for a certain hero as well. Why have you two not met yet? With such common goals, I would think that you could not help but run into each other’s arms. You two have a similar history of getting into trouble and I have an uncanny way of getting you out of it." Flemeth sighed and picked up the grimoire. "Tut, tut, now is not the time for nostalgia or wishful thinking."

Kessler cocked his head as he listened and watched her tip up her chin. A wide grin stretched across her face. "But that has yet to happen. Soon, soon child. But that is neither here nor there. The last we met, I told you we stood on the precipice of change. Have you taken your moment to leap? Can you fly?"

"I'm standing here before you, despite all that has happened in Kirkwall."

Flemeth cackled in the air. "Indeed, indeed. I do so like you, child. Fate is such a fickle thing. So much loss you have suffered, yet here you stand, waiting for more. But more of what, I can hear you thinking, Champion. More of what?"

_I have no fucking idea what she is talking about, but I’ll pretend to humour her. I've no time for riddles. I barely have enough time to take a piss before the templars come breathing down my neck._

"I need that grimoire." He said. "What sort of deal can we broker?"

_What am I about to get myself into? The old man ought to love this._

"Deal! There, there. No need to become all formal. ‘Tis just me, a simple swamp witch. This is not a mere business transaction. Of course the grimoire is yours." She held out the book for him with both hands, but Kessler remained guarded.

"And in return?"

"Keep it from my daughter Morrigan's hands at all costs."

"Why does she take such an interest in it?"

"Now, now. It would be quite unlike me to reveal the truth plainly. What would be the fun in that? Let's just say that her interests run counter to your little quest."

"I don't suppose you can enlighten me on the nature of my  _little quest_ ?"

"How does the Champion of Kirkwall connect to the unravelling of the fabric of this world? Did you pull the first thread? Or was it that mage friend of yours? Or perhaps it was that Warden? Does it matter, now that the undoing has already begun? Take the grimoire." Flemeth gingerly placed the ragged book into his hands. "Keep it from my Morrigan. Once you leave this shelter, I have no doubt that she too will be on your tail. But surely, with the company that you keep, you'll be able to outwit the likes of a hedge mage. Best be on your way child. Go."

Upon her last word she snapped her finger.

Just like that, both the field and the witch disappeared. In the distance came the clatter of armoured boots He jammed the grimoire down the front of his breeches, feeling more than smug at the symbolism of the act and ran. The templar, just rounding the corner, caught sight of him and hollered for him to stop.

Kessler’s mana drain away as the templars neared But at that point, it didn’t matter. He would not be getting out of the library with magic anyway. At the railing, he calculated the distance to the bottom and predicted the sickening fall. From the rail he leapt, grabbing hold of the chandelier, appreciating the tinkle of crystal and swung—with all the strength that he could muster. 

At just the right moment, he called out "Grab hold, my friend!" to Tassilo.

He saw the terror in his eyes, but Tassilo complied and wrapped his arms around Kessler’s waist.

Kessler thrust his legs forward, and used the added weight to their advantage. As soon as his boots align with the open window, he let go. Together they tumbled through, too shocked to say anything, too frightened to look back. Halfway through, Kessler’s head knocked the bottom of the sash, causing the top pane to shatter. Fragments of glass rained down, stinging his scalp like little bees.

Their flight was short lived as Kessler caught the eaves of an adjacent building. They came to an abrupt halt, and Tassilo managed to maintain his firm grip on the Champion of Kirkwall. Kessler’s fingers started to shake, threatening to release. Thankfully, the eaves was solid and supported the added weight. From the window, a templar screamed his threats—spews of vitriol that included the Holy Maker and being sent to the Void.

"How far of a fall is it?" Kessler grunted, fearing that if he looked that the force of his stare would drag them both down.

"Hold on tight." Tassilo tried to sound reassuring.

Kessler used all the energy he could muster to cling to the eaves. His muscles trembled and he broke into a sweat.

Suddenly, the extra weight dropped and his grip renewed. He looked down to see Tassilo standing perilously on the ledge of the building.

"Hurry it up and get down here, before the reinforcements are called in."

Kessler let go and landed on the ledge.  “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”


	27. Nuraya

_Silverite._

She saw flashes of silverite through the smoke. Nuraya felt the desperate need to run but her body would not obey the urgency inside her mind.

_Silverite._

The Archdemon was dead. How long did she spend on the roof taunting it, calling it to her blade? How many times did she plunge her sharpened edge into the filthy beast until her chest heaved in pain and her arms shook with exhaustion? She realized she had started to run, as if through water, her legs numb and unresponsive, as if weighted down. Through the smoke, she caught a glimpse of him.

Silverite armour—stained with a mixture of his and the Archdemon’s blood. On the stone, his body lay rumpled and bruised.

Silence filled her mind for the first time in months, still as a mountain lake. But her heart was breaking. He did it. He killed it. He was torn from her now and forever. The ache of loss, of emptiness, of unfulfilled need reverberated through her chest, and threatened to break through as tears and fall on her ash-stained cheeks. Through the drifting smoke a small bird hovered and then twittered. Its call interrupted the clang of metal, the cries of dying men and howls of perishing Darkspawn. Instead of running to her fallen comrade, the love of her life, she followed the bird to the ramparts. There it perched and flicked its tail with impatience. Such a small thing, against the backdrop of black smoke and fire, it began to chirp and flap its wings, desperate to communicate a message to her.

"Connor, Connor! Go find Ser Ruskin at the Silver Knight!" She heard herself say, even though it made little sense at the time.

Smoke consumed her again—a thick acrid cloud that closed around her throat and pressed on her chest.

"Lady Nuraya, wake up! Come back to bed!"

As the smoke cleared, she found her hand resting against a stone wall. Her gaze followed a thin shaft of light to a small window grate, but the sill was empty. Her head was pounding, yet had a clarifying effect as she roused from her troubled sleep. She stiffened as she looked down at herself to realize she was barefoot and in a white cotton shift. Confusion gave way to a sickening lurch in the pit of her belly. She reached over to scratch her arm and realized that she wore a thick metal and leather cuff around her wrist. Where had it come from? She was not the sort who wore jewelry, but this was more than mere decoration. Turning her wrist over, she noticed a flaming sword etched onto the surface.

The woman wearing a nightcap and night dress grasped her shoulders and led Nuraya back to the bed. Nuraya complied, although no longer in the mood for sleeping.

"Where am I?"

She watched the woman soak a cloth and wring it out and then dabbed it around Nuraya's eye and the parts of her head that ached the most. With some effort, the events from earlier that evening fell back into place. She was in an alleyway and someone attacked her from behind. The last she recalled was a flash of silverite armour.

Knight-Commander Cullen found you and brought you back to the Chantry." It was not silverite after all. It was plate that had caught her attention. For some reason, her subconscious always associated _Alistair_ with battle. Even after Amaranthine, she still expected to see him in her periphery. Memories are like scars. They never leave, they merely fade.

Nuraya pushed the Chantry sister's hands away and sat up. "How long have I been here?"

Even through her panic, confusion and pain, the sister looked familiar to her. Perhaps if she were in her robes her memory might be easily stirred.

"The better part of a day. It’s not yet dawn."

Nuraya swung her legs over the edge of the bed and let her feet touch the cold stone floor, trying to focus her hazy vision. If only the aching in her head would subside.

"Where are my things? I've got to get back to the palace. I'm sure my absence has already created enough of an uproar."

"Word has been sent. Your host knows that you are safe. We decided it best to keep you here and ensure that nothing had happened to you."

She furrowed her brow in response, causing pain to shoot down her neck. “Other than a pounding headache, I am fine,” she groaned.

“That isn’t the Grand Cleric’s concern at the moment. We’re quite satisfied with the state of your health. It’s your … spiritual condition that worries her most, given the nature of your attack.”

Now she remembered— a mage had attacked her. "Are you saying that she wishes to ensure that I have not been possessed?" Finally, recognition dawned on her. "Sister Justine. You're the curator."

Sister Justine drew her mouth into an uncertain and thin smile, nodded and dodged Nuraya’s comment. "My room is next door and I heard you having a nightmare. It’s the first time you have moved since the templars brought here, praise the Maker. Her Grace will be relieved to learn that you are ... well. Why don't you lie back and sleep until morning?"

Nuraya scratched her head and then pressed her fingers to her temples. The aching was unrelenting so without a second thought, she focused a small amount of healing energy to the area. To her surprise, nothing happened. Someone had made sure she was unable to cast magic. She gave Sister Justine and incredulous glare and pointed to the cuff.

If the sister was aware of what had just transpired, her expression hid it well. With a gentle hand, she urged Nuraya back under the covers and smoothed the coverlet over her, much like a mother tending to a sick child.

"There, there child. Rest until morning, until the Grand Cleric has had a chance to speak with you."

Nuraya propped herself up. "Just let me return to the palace. I’m sure the King's healers are as capable. You're kindness and care will not go unnoticed."

Sister Justine furrowed her brow. "Andraste's mercy, in the name of the Maker, forgive what I am about to do..."

Nuraya suddenly smelled a strong pungent odour, just as she realized an herb-soaked cloth was covering her nose. She struggled, but the room faded to black. 

~0oOo0~

Bright daylight warmed her face, but made the aching in her head worse. This time, she felt as if she had fallen and hit her head after a night of serious drinking with Oghren. She was just as disoriented when she awoke the last time, but the anger of a Chantry sister drugging her surfaced. With great effort she turned her head, to see a man sitting in a chair at her bedside. She bolted upright and cried out in surprise, making her head throb with more intensity.

 "Good morning," he said.

 When she caught her breath, the man's identity became clear. Seeker Herzog.

 She held out her wrist. "Are you responsible for this?"

He bent forward and studied the object in question. "That would be the Grand Cleric's doing, I’m afraid. Finally, a more humane way to collar mages. We've been doing some research among the Qunari. Apparently, our little apparatus works, does it not?"

She frowned and tried to work it off her arm, but it was not going to come off willingly.

"You'll need a key. And a templar. So, while you have a few minutes, I have a couple of questions for you."

"First. Under what grounds am I being held? And why… cuff me? I have done nothing wrong. The Grand Cleric must know that I am no threat."

"Of course not. But a mage inside the Chantry, certainly has to expect to abide by certain… rules.”

"Rules? I am not aware that I have broken any Chantry law. Templars brought me here for Andraste’s sake!"

 "Oh, but since Kirkwall, the rules have changed. Every chantry throughout Thedas has had certain sanctions imposed upon it. For its own protection, you see." He grinned thinly. His position on mages was quite clear. Perhaps he once teetered on the edge, but Ander's helped him to take a side.

 "Magic is prohibited within Chantry walls? I still don't understand—what that has to do with me? A mage attacked me, out of the blue."

 "Out of the blue? Are you certain of this?

 "Yes. Quite. "

 "How are you so sure?"

 Nuraya collected her breath, wanting to groan, but instead released an extended exhale. She wanted to be flippant, but she was in no position to do so without raising some imagined suspicion.  "I was hoping that you would have some answers. I’ve no interest in making any enemies." She watched him process her response and she could see as plain as morning that he was unsure whether he believed her. Perhaps he could sense that she was also studying him, as he leaned back in his chair and stroked the corners of his mouth.

 He stood and straightened his tunic.

 "Does this mean anything to you? We found it on your attacker." He dropped a small swatch of cloth on her blanket. She studied it, tracing her finger over the red thread that had been  stitched into the rough spun fabric: a sun encircling a six-pointed star.

 She passed it back to him. "This means nothing to me."

 He took the fabric from her and added it to a small journal and tucked it back inside his tunic.

 Before he could continue, the door burst open.

 "Seeker Herzog! You are tempting my patience!" The shrill interruption came from Grand Cleric Endelyon. She stood with her arms crossed in what seemed to be a gesture of extreme restraint. Nuraya was glad she was not the object of her ire. It was too early in the morning and her head had not stopped throbbing. Sister Justine looked over her superior's shoulder, with one of those looks that decried that Endelyon's mood was not to be trifled with.

 "Miss Amell, I would like to assure both His Majesty and the Wardens that I gave no assent to this... inquiry."

 The Grand Cleric stepped just inside the doorway, waiting for Herzog to leave. Her body language made it clear that this was her unspoken command.  

 "Your Grace, are you at all familiar with the old Orlesian saying _it’s better to beg for forgiveness than to ask permission?_ " Herzog said, quite unfazed by his apparent lapse in propriety.

 Endelyon pursed her lips as her face bloomed in colour. "Sister Justine, see that our guest is shown her belongings and bring her to breakfast. I wish to examine her before discharging her from my care." She slipped out from the doorway and her determined footfalls echoed down the hallway. The parallels between demonic possession and contagious disease were more than apparent.

 "If you happen to learn more about this..." he tapped his chest. Nuraya understood that he was referring to the sun and star symbol he had shown her earlier. "... I would appreciate that you tell your Commander to pass it on to me. We have agreed to cooperate, have we not?"

 Nuraya wanted to get out of bed, but felt vulnerable in her thin cotton shift.  While she was not particularly shy, there was little chance that she was going to allow Seeker Herzog of the Nevarran Order see the Hero of Ferelden in her underclothes. So she stayed put and furrowed her brow. "Do you think this might be connected with Anders? I can assure you that he had no hand in my attack."

 Herzog stood in the doorway and shrugged. "I'm not ruling anything out. Nor should you." He tipped his head in a respectful bow and left.

 Sister Justine, quite unsettled by the whole situation, stepped behind the door, almost as if it were a shield. "Please, ready yourself. I'll wait in the hallway." Before the door closed, it swung open again and Justine poked her head in. "And please Miss Nuraya ... I am so terribly sorry about the sleeping tonic ... the Grand Cleric forbade your leaving until morning...."

 "You're forgiven. I think I understand." It was not often that a Chantry sister asked a mage for absolution, so Nuraya decided to be gracious about it. She didn’t know if another opportunity would ever come her way again.

 Sister Justine smiled a weak smile and then carefully shut the door.

 As much as Nuraya wanted to leave, she felt weary. She sat at the edge of the bed for a few moments and collected her thoughts, massaging her temples with her thumb and forefinger. The cuff chaffed her wrist, not uncomfortably, but enough to remind her of its presence. She had to wonder if there was a connection with the unrelenting headache and whatever caused the cuff to neutralize her magic. As she washed and dressed, the nightmare that had woken her earlier had come back to haunt her. They didn’t happen often, only under times of stress. And Alistair never made an appearance in any of them. It was his presence, more so than the Archdemon that unsettled her the most. The dream had stirred feelings that she thought were long gone.

 As she reached for the door latch, she pulled her fresh braid in front of her and told herself, “this is not the time, Nuraya.”

 

~0oOo0~

 Nuraya sat at a small table in the Chantry's dining room with the Grand Cleric. Knight-Commander Cullen and Carver Hawke joined as soon as a lesser Chantry sister served her a bowl of oatmeal. She raised her spoon but realized that the rest of the table had their heads bowed in prayer, uttering a simple thanksgiving. It reminded Nuraya of the Circle dining room. If it were not for appearances, she would have politely declined the meal and opted for a strong tea.

 When the low hum of breakfast conversation filled the room, she turned to Cullen. "I'm glad I have the chance to thank you."

 "This was the work of the Maker. I happened to be in the right place at the right time," he said. The response seemed genuine, but part of her had to wonder if someone had ordered them to follow her.

 She smiled and nodded. "And what of my attacker?" She had not heard any reports concerning the fate of the mage.

 "In prison. Seeker Herzog is going to question him further. There was an attack on some templars at the Pearl not too long ago. We're going to investigate whether there is a connection."

 Nuraya wanted to help. She knew with certainty that this mage was not in any way associated with the Collective. However, she was wary of discussing her knowledge of the man who accompanied Connor to Denerim.

 "I seem to recall that two of our Wardens were witnesses. Why don't I send them here and perhaps they can identify him for you?"

 The Knight-Commander accepted her offer.

 Throughout breakfast, the Grand Cleric remained quiet and listened to Cullen as he recounted the many events that had transpired in Kirkwall prior to the destruction of the Chantry. Knight-Commander Cullen’s companion, Hawke, was relatively quiet on matters pertaining to his brother, but Nuraya was able to commiserate with him on that point. She understood awkward and difficult situations regarding family a little too well. She was curious about the chain of events that led to Carver Hawke joining the templars. His brother was a rather infamous mage after all. Maybe it was not an act of defiance, but one of protection. It was hard to tell because Carver allowed very little of his opinion of his brother or magic to show. Cullen had alluded that their stay in Denerim was coming to a close, so she was resigned to never satisfy that curiosity.

 Despite the polite conversation, although it was obvious that everyone avoided all mention of mages or magic, one thing continued to gnaw at Nuraya–and that was the matter of the cuff. At first she remained quiet out of curiosity, wondering who would have the nerve to bring it up first.  As their discussion wore on, it became apparent that no one appeared interested in raising the issue, no one except for Nuraya. When the plates had been cleared and the last of the tea was poured, she placed her elbow on the table and wiggled her fingers.

 "I believe that I have something that might belong to you." She looked the Grand Cleric in the eye.

 "Yes. About that." Endelyon replied haughtily. "We must protect ourselves from Abominations. Especially within the House of the Maker. Not even the Hero of Ferelden is above Chantry law."

 Nuraya did not move or blink, fearing anger might prove the Grand Cleric's suspicions true. She leaned on the palm of her hand and considered her next thoughts. Surely someone at the palace would have the tools to cut the damn thing off if worse came to worse.

 The Knight-Commander at least, looked somewhat apologetic. "You might be able to appreciate how paranoid the Chantry has become in recent weeks." Cullen was about to continue when a templar entered the dining room.

 For the first time in her life, Nuraya was never so happy to see a templar.

 "I've come for Nuraya Amell of Dungarven," said Ser Ruskin Kirch, bowing to the Grand Cleric. Were it not for propriety, Nuraya almost leapt from her seat and wrapped her arms around him.

 ~0oOo0~

 

After her breakfast at the Chantry, Ser Ruskin, her Templar chaperone, escorted her back to the palace. Once she had returned, a hive of activity buzzed about her. Seneschal Beric insisted upon receiving a detailed report of her attack and stay at the Chantry for the King. She downplayed most of the ordeal, hoping that Alistair would come seeking the details on his own. And once she was able to extricate herself from Mol and Clodagh’s insistence that she bathe and change immediately, she found her way to the spring sunshine in the palace gardens. This was the only place in Denerim where her homesickness was not so acute. She decided to not antagonize the grounds keepers and beg them for tools. The staff just did not know what to make of the country's most celebrated individual and the King's guest of honour, who wanted to turn compost and pull weeds.

 Only weeks had passed since she had left Dungarven, but she missed it terribly. This was the first time that she felt homesick. She could not have left the Circle fast enough after Duncan had recruited her, and she never once looked back. Now she realized that having a home meant having to endure the pain of its absence. How desperately she wanted her old life back. In a moment of weakness, she thought if she had the chance to trade away her magic for a simple life as a healer back home, she would take it in a heartbeat. But there was no going back. A deep, dark heaviness settled in her chest, as upon realizing that this was just the beginning. Her path was just starting to unfold in front of her, although it was becoming more and more apparent that it would not be an easy one. To add insult to injury, she had little insight into her destination. How would she bring the Chantry to see that mages were not a threat, nor a power to be suppressed, but as Thedas' greatest ally?

 Ser Ruskin joined her on the stone bench in the middle of an azalea and laurel grove. She could see in the distance that the King and Queen were taking their tea on the balcony and no doubt were watching her with curiosity.

 "It hasn't even been a month since you left my watch and you’re already causing scandal. I never took you for a troublemaker. You were always so well behaved."

 Nuraya chuckled at Ruskin. A gentle breeze caught a lock of his deep auburn hair. "It's just like old times," she grinned and rubbed the spot where the cuff had hung. Part of her wished that the Knight-Commander had not removed it. She would have liked to have studied it more, learned how it worked.

 "So that man who summoned me. He is an apostate, correct?"

 It seemed strange to her to label Kalvindir as an apostate. That term seemed reserved for the scattered groups living on the run, those whose desperation knew no limits, those who no longer could discern friend from foe. It seemed hardly fit for a man whose network extended farther than the roots of a willow.

 "He is the head of the Mages Collective here in Denerim. He is of great help to many mages—keeps most of them out of trouble. Sort of like the mage's version of you."

 Ruskin leaned low and wove his fingers together between his knees. He smiled at the comment, but his thoughts took him somewhere more perplexing. "How did he know where to find me? How did he know where you were?"

 A difficult question. She had spent the better part of the day wondering how much she should tell him. Ruskin was becoming an invaluable cog in her clockwork. Taking a deep breath, she told him everything about Connor.

 Her companion blanched as she explained how Connor had escaped the Tower, how he had made it to Denerim and her plans to smuggle him to Amaranthine.

 "Does the King know?"

 Nuraya shook her head. "He's got enough on his plate. It's too late now. The political optics of this situation would be disastrous if anyone at the palace were to find out. If the Chantry ever tolerated my presence outside of the Circle, they would, without question, revoke any agreement regarding my freedom, should the Chantry discover my role in this. They will never believe that I was pulled unwillingly into the situation. They will think that I planned it—that his escape plays into some aspect of the rebellion they think I am plotting."

 "Rebellion!" The colour had still not returned to Ruskin’s cheeks.

 "I'm sure that's what the Chantry thinks I am planning. They already think I have had a hand in the Kirkwall incident."

 "And did you?"

 She flashed her companion a dirty look which was enough to convince him of her innocence. "I'm not interested in rebellion. Replacing the Chantry with the mages is not a solution. The power of the elves, of men and of mages can be reconciled. We can work together toward common goals, to live peacefully and equally together."

 "Elves? And how do you intend on doing this?"

 "I have no idea. But change is already brewing. Can’t you feel it, just below the surface? The situation for mages is only going to get worse in the short term. The Chantry has developed some sort of method of neutralizing magic. This is not going to go over well. We're already seen as a threat—and we have done nothing! Have you heard of this device?" She explained the cuff to him and its effects.

 “Can't say I have ever heard of such a thing.”  I'll be paying the Grand Cleric a visit while I am here, I'll see what I can find out.  Have you any idea what Ainsley is supposed to do? Why did you have me bring her to Denerim? It’s starting to sound as if Denerim is the wrong place to hide a mage.”

 In one of the rooms in the Silver Knight Inn, Ser Ruskin's mage wife and daughter waited for his return.  Bringing baby Josslyn into the world was Nuraya's last official act as a country healer. Time would tell which parent the child would take after. Ser Ruskin trusted her with his secret and she would return the favour with a promise of temporary safety and security. She had been plotting again.

 "How do you feel about Highever?"

 If Ruskin was having a difficult time following Nuraya's convoluted tale, he was now at a loss for words.

 Nuraya patted his shoulder. "I think I have found yourself and Ainsley a new form of employment."

She watched his brow furrow in consternation, but she continued. "As tutors."

 "But you have no authority over my postings."

 "No, this is true. But I think the King might."

 Then she explained to him about the Prince.

 

~0oOo0~

 

"Please set the tea by the fire, Mol." Nuraya said, back in her room at the palace. The sun had set and she called up for a late night snack for two.

 "Her Highness said that she will join you just as soon as the Prince is down for the night."

 Nuraya nodded and dismissed Mol for the night. She settled into the wingback chair and stretched her toes toward the fire, happy not to spend another night in the confines of the Chantry. Maker forbid she do anything wrong, or be caught doing what she was about to do.

 Freya, Queen's lady-in-waiting rapped on the door just as Nuraya had started to doze. Telari took her seat, insisting that it was not necessary for Nuraya to stand and bow. The maid reached for the tea service but the Queen waved her away.

 "You are dismissed. Please rouse me if Bran awakes in the middle of the night."

 Once they were alone, the Queen's expression fell. "He's starting to have nightmares. Did you, once your magic developed?"

 Nuraya thought back to when she was a girl. Her gift manifested out of the blue one day. One moment she was an ordinary little girl, and the next she had the overwhelming desire to set the grass on fire. Of course, being sheltered from the ways of the world, she skipped into the smithy and proudly demonstrated her gift to her father. From his devastated expression, she knew immediately that this was more akin to a curse than a gift.

 "Not that I can recall. They started for the most part once I was taken to the Circle, when I was taken from my family. Do you know what he is dreaming of?"

 Telari shook her head. "I think he is too young to articulate it. He wakes in a sweat, screaming for us."

 "When did this start?"

 "Shortly after you arrived."

 Nuraya could not help it, but she smiled. "I seem to have that effect on people."

 The Queen put a graceful hand on Nuraya's forearm, exactly in the place where the cuff had been. "Please don't think I am insinuating that you are at all connected with this..."

 "Perhaps you might get him to draw what he is dreaming? Identifying what is scaring him, might be a good place to start.'

 Telari reached for the teapot and filled two cups. "Brilliant idea. I will have his governess try as well. Then what? But wait ... you called me here. Pray, how rude of me. Please forgive me, my nights are restless and are fraught with worry about Bran."

 "Get Bran to express his fears. You need to know what you are dealing with first. And it just so happens that Bran is reason why I called you here tonight."

 "Indeed? What then?" Telari's expression fell. "Did the Grand Cleric say anything about Bran?"

 "No, no, nothing like that. I think I have found a temporary solution regarding fair Prince Brandel."

 Nuraya set her tea upon the carpeted floor and squatted in front of the fire, using the poker to urge more flames. She took a log from the pile, pushed away the cinders and dropped it in. Once she was satisfied with the results, she sat cross legged and looked in Telari's worried face.

 "I have found Bran a pair of tutors."

 This was not the answer that Telari was expecting. Nuraya explained Ser Ruskin and Ainsley's situation to her. "I've already discussed this with Ruskin, and he has agreed—"

 Telari's eyes widened in horror. "You told a _templar_ about my son?"

 "I trust him implicitly. He is far more concerned about his wife and child than the current political situation in Ferelden or Chantry doctrine on mages. Besides, I think he's a little lost without me. So, you take Bran, along with Ser Ruskin and family to Highever. Ainsley will teach Bran how to control his impulses and learn the basics of magic, and Ser Ruskin will ensure that things are on the up and up. He can make anything… go away… if worse comes to worse and no one will have to alert the Chantry. Besides, Ruskin was sent to me as a favour from Alistair. We knew the Chantry would not allow me to establish a clinic without some form of oversight, so he sent an old friend of his."

 Telari thought over the proposition. "It just might work..."

 "This is by no means a permanent arrangement, but it can at least buy you and Alistair some time, while I do... whatever it is that I have to do."

 "Will the Chantry agree to this? What about you? They will still insist that you are to be supervised, will they not?"

 "Of course they will. I am going to do the Chantry a little favour, which should release Ruskin from his current posting. Timing is critical. When the time is right, have Alistair request Ruskin to take up a post in Highever as Bran's tutor. It’s not out of the realm of the absurd and I am sure that the Grand Cleric will be pleased that both his litany and combat training will come from the Chantry."

 "And if the Chantry chooses to send someone else instead?"

 "Last I heard, Alistair Theirin was the King of Ferelden."

 Telari sighed. "We've been tiptoeing around the Chantry's demands ever since... Bran. I know Alistair just wants to keep them appeased and at arm’s length."

 Nuraya rose to her feet and set her fists on her hips. "This _will_ work. I'll send word when I have completed my phase of the plan."

 "Alistair is not going to like manipulating the Chantry like this... but it’s the only tenable option. I just knew you would pull through for us." Telari stood, with a renewed verve and rushed for the door. "I'm going to tell Alistair right away."

 Once the door shut, Nuraya was reminded of the dream that she had had earlier and wondered if Bran also had the gift of sight. For some reason, she was quite certain of it and felt no more at ease now that her plans were set in motion.

 


	28. Saunière

“It’s best not to disturb the Professeur when he is deep in study,” Tassilo whispered to Hawke.

Saunière had been reading for the better part of the morning. Thanks to his assistant’s stroke of genius, they were sitting in the back of a wool merchant’s wagon on their way to Cumberland. He decided that now was the best time to translate and piece together the fragments of the Tevinter Grimoire and compare them with the evidence that he had discovered in Nessum and Trevis. Despite the countless times they had been side-tracked over the past few weeks, the sweet seductive call of research never ceased to tease him. Finally, he was able to nestle into the wool sacks and surrender to the ancient literature. Words were like a woman’s finger that travelled slowly down his spine—he could not stop her once she started. It wasn’t difficult to ignore the chatter between Tassilo and Hawke and he took this most recent interruption as a sign that he was ready for a break. 

Travel to Cumberland had come at a price. Tassilo and Hawke’s weapons were drawn, and they succeeded in appearing both professional and somewhat intimidating. Although upon closer inspection, Saunière had to admit, they looked a little too comfortable. He supposed the sway of the wagon and the billowing sacks of fleece might have had something to do with it. It had been years since Saunière had taken the Imperial Highway from Nevarra City to Cumberland and he was not aware if this had become a particularly dangerous stretch of road. It did not much matter. It was a ride to the coast. Saunière was anxious to get as much study in as he could over the course of the day, hoping to get the bulk done before booking passage to Jader. His stomach lurched at the thought of their pending sea voyage.  

The road was quiet, as were the rolling green hills that smelled of spring. The driver, in his wide-brimmed hat, was hunched low, keeping the reins slack on the backs of the horses. He did not seem at all on edge either. That alone seemed to chase away the apprehension he had carried all the way from Tylus Canyon. They had helped load the wagon on the city’s outskirts. Saunière was anxious about riding in the back of an uncovered wagon, for fear of the wrong sort taking notice. But now, he was glad for it—the day was glorious and it would have been a shame to waste it under a moldy tarpaulin.   

“We risked our necks for that bloody thing. I think I’m within my rights to ask what’s so special about it.” Hawke grumbled, fidgeting with the pommel of Saunière’s former sword which was swung in a carefree manner over his shoulder.

It had come to Saunière’s attention following Hawke’s return from the National Library that something _unusual_ had happened. Tassilo had mentioned that he was able to breach the ward rather easily, a little too easily, he thought. But something had transpired, and even though the mage remained silent on the matter, it had painted his expression ever since they had left Nevarra City. Saunière fondled the six-pointed star encircling a flaming sun that had been burnished into the leather cover. He knew it was worth the risk and was almost giddy at the prospect of finally getting to share his conclusions.

 “He will publish his findings in due time.” Tassilo replied, with an impatient edge in his tone.

Orlesian scholars, without exception, were both stoic and detached when it came to matters of research. It would be considered highly inappropriate, not to mention vulgar, to demonstrate any degree of enthusiasm. While Saunière had learned over the years to temper any outward expression of joy, he was glad that he held this particular collection of research in the back of a wool wagon, and not at his tower on campus. He allowed a crooked smile to escape, and ended the suspense that had built over the course of the morning, Saunière cleared his throat. “I’ve completed some initial translations and managed to piece together a coherent narrative. Care to hear some preliminary findings?”

“It would be an honour, Professeur, esteemed scholar of Andrastian theology.’ Hawke’s reply was dripping with sarcasm, although his wink suggested that he was merely teasing. There was little chance that Hawke would actually admit to an interest in his work. Even the dog cocked his head and appeared to listen.

The professor scanned his hasty notes and rubbed his chin in thought. He allowed a considerable pause to pass as he appreciated the sound of the wooden wheels click-clack over the gravelly road.

“What I am about to read is nothing short of … explosive,” he said carefully.

“Well… I am no stranger to that sort of thing. Read on.” Hawke said, adjusting his posture.

Saunière nodded and started to recite the words that had not been voiced for centuries. He wanted to honour this moment. It would be the highpoint of his entire career.

_“You are my blessed friend, ma sa’falon. It was more than fate that brought us together. If this letter seems at all out of the ordinary, please read on, for there is much to explain._

_“Against the odds, you and I have risen against our masters, with nothing more than tinder and broken glass. Our struggle transcends our mortal pains—slave against master, elf against human, magister against barbarian. You and I fight for a freedom that transcends this earthly existence. Our bodies and our souls resist this oppression, this darkness, this void. While my candle still burns bright, I must write and tell you everything—the unsaid that has troubled you these past months. I pass on to you the flame that you must ignite within yourself, so you can share it amongst your people. For I am the lightening and the Alamarri are the drought ravaged forest. Even as you wait in thirst, I will strike in the middle of the night and together we will blaze and consume all in our path. Only then will it be possible to confront Tevinter and remove magic from their arsenal. I give you this story as I have given you my heart.”_

He looked up. While Hawke seemed to ruminate on what he had just read, a tear had formed in the corner of Tassilo’s eye.

“Divine mercies… _professeur_ ,” his assistant whispered in amazement.

Hawke furrowed a brow. “Wait a minute! You’re going to have to give me a little more explanation.”

Tassilo continued to gape. “It’s a letter from Shartan to Andraste. He refers to her as _ma_ _sa’falon_. My one friend. Andraste has yet to confront the Maker. There are no existing documents that relate to this period in history. It also sounds as if they may have been lovers. Please, continue.”

It was hard to tell if Hawke appreciated the implications of what he was reading. Instead of launching into a lecture, knowing there would be plenty forthcoming, he continued to read.  

_“Ma sa’falon, when the Alamarri arrived on these shores, they clung to the stories of their grandfathers. They revered the essence of the trees and the wind, honoured the power of the wolf and begged mercy upon the rain, but they did not see the One. The Alamarri always saw themselves as separate from the world and from their cruel gods. Andraste, ma sa’falon, how lonely you must feel, to know your gods have turned their backs on the plight of your people. In my heart, I weep for the desperation that has settled into your soul. I am writing to tell you that this need not be._

_Listen closely. The people of Elvhenan sang songs that whispered of Sa to your forbearers. This is a truth we do not tell, but hold in our hearts. We do not sing or speak of Sa, for the One is beyond thought, beyond reason, beyond dreaming, beyond the beyond. Words can only point to shadows and half-truths. The Keepers tell us that the Sa that can be spoken of is not the beloved Sa.  Nameless and thoughtless it is. However, try and hear me, ma sa’falon. For this story needs to be told. I pray to Sa’s compassionate mercy that my telling is not construed as insolence. I tell you with a pure heart.”_

 “Sa? The One? This is new, _Professeur_.” Tassilo interrupted.

Saunière grinned and furtively replied, “Indeed, my friend.”

“It’s just an elvish term for Maker, right?” Hawke asked.

Saunière felt a small victory that he had caught the Champion’s attention. He closed his eyes and shook his head and then continued reading. Hawke passed him the water skin so he could quell the rasp that had developed in his voice. It gave his reading character, but it also involved frequent throat clearing and coughing—both of which interrupted the cadence of the passage.

_“The ancient shemlens were full of lust and greed, anxious to occupy our land and claim it as their own. For you know this hunger. You’ve felt it too. We cannot fault them, for they had left their dying lands poor and broken, chasing their own dreams of freedom. A heart so full of want cannot listen. The light of Sa was inside them too, but they failed to open their eyes and hear our whispers. Still, many generations have come to pass and Sa’s light burns brightly in your people, but yet remain blind to it._

_Ma sa’falon, open your eyes, see the light! Come and touch the Divine flame, watch it radiate through the darkness of your history. Come, embrace the One. Hear our story and take it to your people. Only then will you have the strength to stand against Tevinter, the godless, children of the deceiver. You know that your gods do not listen, that they are powerless, that they are not there. Now listen to me with a full heart and an empty mind. Shed your hatred and your wanton desire to conquer. Approach Sa with a pure spirit, ma sa’falon.”_

Saunière did not mind Tassilo’s animated reactions to what he read. In fact he quite enjoyed peeking over the parchment to see him lean forward, hang on every word and then sit back with wide eyes, hands resting on his cheeks in bewilderment. Finally, when Tassilo could contain himself no longer, Saunière paused again and allowed him to process what he had just read. Despite the utter exuberance of being the first to piece together this letter, a sickening feeling grew in the back of his mind. The Chantry would not feel the same excitement. In fact, he expected both the Rector and the Divine would want to make this document go away. The document, he had a feeling, was worth killing over.

Before his dark thoughts got the best of him, Kessler’s chuckling pulled him out. “What say you Tass? Do tell me, for I am afraid this academic mumbo-jumbo is quite over my head.”

“But don’t you see, Kess? These are Shartan’s words.” Tassilo pulled off his tricorn hat, held it to his chest and looked to the sky.

“My friend, I will admit my ignorance in this regard only. What has you so astonished?”

“I think, and correct me if I am wrong _Professeur_ , but according to this letter, a visitation from the Maker did not convert Andraste—it was Shartan.”

Saunière nodded. “Let’s see what else he reveals, shall we?”

“The Chantry will like this as much as they liked my friend Anders’ little explosive surprise,” mumbled Hawke. 

Saunière kept his opinion to himself, although he had to agree. 

_“There is a glorious energy in our universe, beyond the sun and clouds, beyond the moon and sky. From the power of Sa, came the being that set our existence in motion—Sasule. So few speak of her, so it is time, ma sa’falon to speak of her again and how she stumbled, how she fell, how she became all that surrounds us. But Sasule has become lost. She lost her way, just as you have, my friend. You have suffered long enough and no longer must you experience the pain of being irrevocably ripped from your source, forever feeling separate, forever different, forever searching. I have come with tidings that you need no longer bear this pain. Sasule has begun her journey home. You bear her mark and must lead Sasule to the Sa.”_  

“My apologies again _professeur._ Sasule? I am not familiar with this Goddess. Even the elves will find this tale hard to believe.”

Saunière groaned a little in agreement and Tassilo rattled on. “Let’s look at the etymology of her name. Sa, again meaning the one…”

“And _sule_ meaning endure or certainty. It’s close to the term _sasume_ , meaning wisdom.”

“A story that neither the elves or the Chantry will buy, but a hedge mage is willing to kill for. Please tell me there is mention of the dwarves and Qunari” Kessler said.

Saunière grinned. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?”

Tassilo made a sort of squeal in the back of his throat that expressed the depths of his eagerness and then flicked his hands in such a way to tell the professor to read on.

_“Even before the time of the humans, Elvhan Keepers journeyed in spirit, leaving their bodies in safe keeping with the clan, to explore the forests, the mountains, the lands beyond the oceans. With time, the Keepers grew brave and searched the skies, discovering an extraordinary realm beyond the moon, past the sun. We saw that our land, our home, is nothing more than a blue-green pearl nestled on an arm of a vast pinwheel of stars, spinning through the heavens. The only evidence of our great astral neighbourhood here in Thedas, is to look to the sky when the moon is dark. Look up and see the great White River. Those, ma sa’falon, are the countless stars that soar with us and blaze through the heavens. The Keepers tell us, that a dark void punctures the very heart of this spinning wheel—like the centre of a flower or the eye of a hurricane. I know you and your people fear the dark, but fear not this place. This is the realm of the Sa, whole, perfect, balanced and full of potential.”_

The professeur smiled and smoothed the parchment on his lap. Sometimes the beauty of the words was too much for him to bear.

”Tassilo, notice how the story’s cosmogony does not separate the divine from nature. Fascinating.”

Not missing a beat, Tassilo leaned forward and whispered to Hawke, “Cosmogony is the study of how the universe came into being.”

_“Our lost legends tell us that from the very heart of the wheel of stars, Sa dreamed the great gods. Sa dreamed of Elgar’nan, Mythal and all the Creator gods our storytellers chronicle in front of the fire. We do not tell strangers of how the creator was created. Sa dreamed all our Gods and they all bear Sa’s perfection and light. When we tell the stories of Sylaise teaching the Elven to use fire, we are revering Sa’s light at the same time. Our stories serve a higher purpose, well hidden from the wanton thoughts of Tevinter. They offer more than explanation. For like a fire in the rain, the light must be protected. Our tales have served us well for many generations._

“So the reason that no one has heard of this Sa-being before is because it is being purposefully hidden?” Hawke asked.

“That’s what Shartan claims. Don’t forget, most elven folk-stories are part of an oral tradition. Unlike a codified sacred text—such as the Chant of Light—oral traditions are much more flexible, with regard to how a community recognizes canon. Another important aspect of oral traditions involves initiation. Where the Chant of Light is available to all believers, some oral traditions are only accessible to those who have been granted permission to hear it,” replied Tassilo. His long boney fingers were pressed together and he wiggled them as he spoke.

“In this case,” Saunière continued, “I suspect the initiates who knew of Sa, only came to this knowledge through experience.”

“So is Shartan sticking his neck out in writing to Andraste about this?” Hawke asked.

Saunière shrugged. “Without a doubt. The written record is sparse at best for this period of time. There is no indication from already accepted history that Shartan had any conflict with the Elves. But this, of course, does not mean it never happened. He is breaking a long line of transmission of sacred teaching. That cannot be easily dismissed. But at this point, we cannot determine why. The one question that begs asking is how does Shartan come to know this? The history that we are given is rather unremarkable—he was a leader of a group of slaves who rose against Tevinter and never lived to see the establishment of the Dales. No one has ever spoken of him as a Keeper, or having access to a clan. Most of us assumed he was _din’vehn_ —clanless.”

“You know _Professeur_ , we should really find some of the clans that now occupy the Arlathan Forest. There are rumours that there are hermetic Keepers there… perhaps they might be able to corroborate some of this.” Tassilo said.

“My dear Tass. One thing at a time. Hasn’t it taken us long enough to get to Ferelden?” Hawke jibbed. 

“We could travel the northern coast. It is on the way to Tevinter. We’ll end up there, I am sure.”

Saunière launched into the next passage before Hawke could dissent.  

_“The world we inhabit came about due to a mistake. Let me tell you that story, ma sa’falon._

_“Do not confuse Sa as a father-creator. Sa does not create directly in the way that a craftsman makes a bow. The One, the Sa, our perfection, flows forth, carrying life-giving potential as a river feeds an ocean, like the wind carries a seed. It offers its pure, singularity so that chance and change can flourish. It came to pass, after dreaming of the Creators, that Sa, dreamed of Sasule and Dirthera. And thus they began their divine dance through the heavens, leaving the potential for life in each of their steps.”_

“My apologies, Professeur. Sasule, we have established is Wisdom. Dirthera has elements of the word telling and story.”

“I think it’s an arcane word for truth. And in this case, Sasule and Dirthera are a female and male pair.”

“Interesting. Read on then.” Tassilo concluded with a nod. 

_“Sasule being the youngest of the two and ultimately curious, wondered what would happen if she were to emerge from the source, from the Sa, alone. For the first time, a Goddess dreams alone, without her counterpart. Sa’s inherent law of harmony and balance are disrupted. Enthralled by the possibilities of mortal singularity, she drifts away from her mate and from Sa, departs from the cosmic centre and plunges into the realm of external, swirling chaos outside the great centre of the wheel._

_“Her plunge had unintended consequences. Her very act of separation brings forth Din’inan into existence, a god so jealous and conceited that he thought he was the one true and mighty Maker. This god, using his mother’s inspired light became capable of creating his own distorted beings, in his own twisted image, thinking he alone possessed this power. In turn, Din’inan, drunk with power, creates the Forgotten Ones. To you, they have come to be known as the Old Gods, progenitor of the Darkspawn. They falsely believe Din’inan to be the ultimate creator.”_

“Hold on there, professor.” Hawke said, holding up his hand with a scowl. Saunière could not be more pleased that he had not only captured the man’s attention, but his telling was also capable of rousing emotion. “You’re telling me that the Maker… is actually a cosmic reject? And he’s not even at the top of the food-chain?”

“It would seem that way.” Saunière replied matter-of-factly.

“I’ve never heard the Maker referred to as Din’inan before.” Tassilo stated, staring out the back of the wagon with a wistful expression. “Din’inan… is elvish for _no eyes_.”

Hawke chuckled. “Does the Chantry know about this?” He thought longer on what he had said. “Bride of the Fucking Maker… If the Chantry thinks I am associated with this on top of the Kirkwall Chantry…  what’s that saying… out of the frying pan...”

“And into the Void.” Tassilo sounded grim. 

“This is a whole new level of heresy, gentlemen.” Saunière crossed his leg and wove his fingers across a knee. Whether it was the weather or the company, he was almost loathe to admit that he had not enjoyed himself this much while discussing an academic text for many years. He realized that his Orlesian colleagues were far too concerned with their reputations to come even remotely this close to broaching the topics they were discussing so openly. Somehow, that seemed to make the breeze smell sweeter and the birds chirp even more merrily. He was not lost on this contradiction.

“To be honest, I am not all that surprised to learn that the Maker is nothing more than an arrogant asshole with mommy issues.” Hawke nibbled on a fingernail and then used the tip of the sword to clean under each one. “I’m interested in Shartan’s side of the story with regard to magic. I am sure that will make the Divine’s toes curl.”

Saunière saw his opportunity. “Well, shall I continue then? Let me finish the account. Then we will discuss it when I am finished. ”

_“Din’inan, full of pride and arrogance, stole his mother’s power and constructed a habitat for himself and his many sons. We understand this place as the Fade. The Alamarri see this as the land of death and dreams._

_‘For I am the Maker and this is my Word. Let this Word became all that might be.’_

_“Sasule, heard Din’inan’s boasting and thus named him. ‘For you are without eyes, you are blind and mistaken’_

_“Din’inan, conceited and certain that Sasule was part of his own created host, answered, ‘If any other being exists before me, for I am the Maker and there is no other beside me, let it be forth shown to me!’_

_“And in a demonstration of his imagined power, he created the Old Gods. So ashamed that her progeny would create something so ugly, Sasule shaped her inner light to birth our earth, a place of beauty and innocence, a place of respite from the Fade.  She infused the light of Sa with that of the Sun, to allow it to sustain and nourish the world below and prevent the darkness Din’inan had created to infest that which she had manifest. She created the moon to guide the waters, and break the long night darkness._

_“When he saw what she had brought forth from her womb, Din’inan, ever jealous, hollowed the passages beneath the mountains to provide shelter for his creations, for be believed that his sons had the right to occupy and rule these lands._

_“In her final act, her strength beginning to wane as the moon, she dreamed of the Elves, Humans, Dwarves and Kossith, shaping them all from her source and kissing them with Sa’s power, saying—”_

Saunière looked up and pointed at the document. “See, what did I tell you? Everyone is bloody-well implicated in this.”

Hawke scowled. “Great. Last thing we need are a couple of Qunaris on our tale accusing us of poisoning the Qun with _basra vashedan.”_

Tassilo laughed out loud. “Your Qunlat is impressive. Who taught you?”

“Maybe when the professor is done, I’ll tell you how I ran the Qunari from Kirkwall. Continue on…”

Saunière cleared this throat dramatically.

_‘You shall be brothers and sisters and protect my body from Din’inan’s corruption.’_

_What she did not anticipate was that he had breathed the power of the Fade into his creation. Sasule, weakened by her separation from Sa, saw that they would have power over her caretakers._

_“The Dwarves, so stout and hearty, she placed under the mountain. They were deemed the protectors, bound to Sa and Sasule to protect the land from Din’inan’s filth. Upon the land, she entrusted the elven and humankind to be caretakers for the trees and the land. They were given the lore of the animals and plants; they were given emotions to love one another, their home, and Sasule. Finally, they were given imagination and reason for which to build and prosper throughout the ages. To the Kossith, she provided logic and fortitude. With their strength, they would serve as guardians, keeping the passions of the humans and elf-kind in check. To each these creations, she gave them voice, so they could teach and learn from one another._

_“But she underestimated Din’inan’s power. His shadow crept deep from inside the earth and brought wroth upon her children. Hatred blackened their hearts, jealousy made them craft weapons to use upon each other. His creatures, one by one, began to abduct her children and consumed them, corrupting them, devouring the light of Sa, sending the power back through the Fade to Din’inan._

_“Sasule’s separation from Sa, traps her within her own creation. She becomes the very essence of all that grows and dies, but she lingers in an endless dream, forced to witness the sorrow her fall has brought to her children. In a last desperate act to protect Sa’s light, she breathes herself into her children upon the land. She hopes that with this light they can bring balance. To some, she grants access to the fade, the chance to channel Din’inan’s power, the opportunity to use it against the dark and ignorant forces. And under the mountain, she bestows an equally powerful gift, lyrium, and the dwarves the power to shape it without an appetite to consume it._

_“My time with this quill and parchment, my love, my heart, ma sa’falon, has ended. Sasule dreams, my one-friend. The spirit-journeys of the Keeper tell of brother elf and sister human coming together and using their magic to wake Sasule. Together, we must. You and I. There is more to tell. Until my next missive, I am forever your one true friend.”_

Saunière set down the paper. No dared speak or stir the silence. A warm breeze caught under his hat, threatening to lift it from his head and send it sailing over the meadowlands. He pulled it off and wiped his brow, setting it safely beside him. Appreciating the clearness of the sky and allowing the words he had just read to echo in his bones, his heart filled. For the first time in his life, he sensed that something greater than he existed. He decided he would allow the emotion to settle and think on it some more, for he knew that the racing of his mind could sometimes play seductive tricks. If he were able to maintain reason and logic with this new sensation, he might not chase it away, or convince himself that it was an obstacle to the sharp discernment that he had come to depend upon.

Tassilo seemed in a similar state of bafflement. He rested an elbow on his knee and clutched his deeply furrowed brow as he allowed what he had just learned to sink in. Hawke was also quiet and had taken to stroking his hound.

The wagon had just reached the top of a steep incline. As they crested, Saunière could see the sparkle of the Waking Sea stretch out to the clear horizon. From this vantage point, he could barely make out a dark smudge far into a dreamy haze—Jader.

He paid close attention to the water, saw it from a whole new perspective— not as a means of his own personal torture—but as a great wonder.  How perfect that it held the power to conjure both serenity and terror. All it took was a mere change in the direction of the wind.

“And what are we supposed to do with this?” Kessler asked, in the same dream-like state as he. “Please don’t tell me we are to start a new-fangled religious order. That would be a very bad idea.”

Tassilo was looking over the original documents from which Saunière had pieced together this narrative. “Look at this professeur. What are these markings? They don’t look phonetic. Are they are some sort of pictogram perhaps? Maybe they are archaic runes.” He pointed to what he was referring. They peppered the document, showing up in margins and between the lines. This was his next challenge.

“Yes. I noticed them. We’ll have to look at that more closely. And to answer your question, Kessler,” Saunière had noticed that Hawke had stopped calling him _Old Man_. Perhaps there was some deeper magic within the pages that he had just read that had knocked the chip off the Champion’s shoulder.  “I don’t quite know what we should do with it, but it is taking us to Ferelden. Let’s see where else it will take us.”


	29. Connor

**Chapter 29: CONNOR**

Connor rolled the bulb of swampwort on the table with his palm, just as the instructions described. A dog-eared book was propped open with a wooden spoon, displaying the recipe he was following. It offered no real description as to its purpose, beyond the list of ingredients and details of the procedure. The day before, Briony had dropped by the Mages Collective and spent a long time whispering with Kalvindir, so based on that, he guessed that the potion was for her. Kalvindir continued to remain silent on the details even when he told Connor to get started. Connor hazarded a guess that it had to do with "womanly" issues, but he thought no farther or deeper on the issue and was contented to just following the instructions.

**The Outfader needs to ask more questions.**

_Shut-up Endra._

He could almost sense her flash him a frustrated look, even though she was a mere voice inside his head. It had become firmly established that when Kalvindir was around, she was to remain absolutely hidden and he had come to trust that she would remain so. As his relationship with her had developed, he learned that she had an insatiable thirst for knowledge; his original assumption that she was omniscient was quite wrong. And he was just as curious about her. Every night, as he lay in bed before sleeping, he'd allow her to manifest so he could grill her with more questions. She was nothing like any of the demons he had read about in the Circle library.

_Why have you come here?_

At night, when they were alone, she would resume her odd perching at the foot of his bed and gnaw on her fingers.  **The Outfader asks too many questions.**

_What kind of demon are you Endra? Desire? Rage?_

**I don't know of what you speak, Outfader.**

She always evaded questions regarding her nature. Although he found it frustrating, there was a part of him that enjoyed the challenge. Throughout his evenings alone in his little room, he would pepper Endra with questions until his mind snuggled into the dark of sleep. Eventually, he had started to experiment. To himself, he would think, "I'm going to enter the Fade and kill Endra," while strongly holding the intention to keep the thought private. She would say nothing. Then, to Endra, he would ask in the quiet of his mind:  _What is your name, again?_

**The Outfader's memory is weak.**

He had experimented in all sorts of ways, with happy thoughts, funny and ribald thoughts, and violent ones as well. If he willed the idea to be private, it seemed that it was kept from Endra's insatiable hunger for knowledge. That was hugely reassuring to him. The thought of her having complete access to his mind, was unsettling at best. While on one level, he had grown to trust her, he knew that until he better understood her intentions, it was best he keep his own private enclave. It also irked him to no end that he did not have the same access to her thoughts.

One thing he did learn was that she liked sharing his eyes most of all. Even inconsequential objects seemed to draw her attention. Yesterday morning while he was finishing up some of his chores, a plant in the front window caught the corner of his eye and Endra urged him closer. Not in any particular hurry, he relented, feeling smug knowing that she had virtually no control over his body. At first, Connor thought the spiked and oddly-shaped plant must have been a rare and difficult to procure ingredient, but after asking Kalvindir a number of Endra-directed questions, he learned that it was nothing more than a common cactus native to the Tylus Canyon region. Kalvindir said that it reminded him of home.

**Outfader, use the eyes and look closer.**

Conner shrugged and complied.

Connor groaned under his breath and leaned in further.

**Trace eyes over all the edges, Outfader. Inspect the barbs.**

Connor noticed that a whorl of thorns dotted the ridges of the cactus.

**Now touch them.**

_Are you crazy?_  But without further argument, he stuck his finger on a spiny branch; he knew she would continue to fill his head with inane requests if he chose to ignore her

"Ouch!" The barb stung. Connor shook his finger and then sucked the tip. Although looking tended to preoccupy her the most, she did often ask Connor to use his other senses. He was glad that she did not need to taste the cactus. Touching was painful enough.

_There, you happy? It caused me pain, Endra. PAIN. Do you know what pain is?_

She made some sort of passively observant comment but Connor had stopped paying attention.

Endra was just as keen to learn today, as Connor was about to peel the swampwort. He recalled some vague warning involving a rash, but he pushed the fear aside and proceeded forward. He read over the aged text and sliced an X at the top of the bulb, turned it over, braced his thumb over the cluster of roots and pulled. And just like the book said, the outer skin pulled off effortlessly, leaving a shiny ball that left wet purple stains on the table.

"See what happens when Leetle Markus listens to Kalvindir? Now quick, into the pot, quick before any more juice is lost."

Connor did as he was told. When it hit the mixture of honey, herbs and wine with a plunk, Kalvindir gave it a bit of a stir before covering it. "Leetle Markus will someday make better potions than Kalvindir." He turned and pointed with his large wooden spoon, barely containing a wide grin beneath his bushy beard. "You have talent, Leetle Markus. Now we must wait until moon is dark. Come. I have Shartan's Tears that must be prepared."

As he gestured to a large bundle of dried herbs hanging in the corner, a knock came at the door.

He furrowed his brow. "Leetle Markus can clean up mess. Kalvindir will get door."

There was not much to do, but Connor could hear Endra's endless questions start to bubble to the surface again. Every item he touched needed further investigation and explanation: _This is a paring knife. It's made from steel and wood. One edge is dull and the other is sharp. It is typically used for cutting food and herbs. No, it is not often used as a weapon…_

It was abundantly clear how unfamiliar this side of the Veil was to her. But despite her questionable nature, Connor did not feel alone and that seemed to be all the comfort he needed for the time being. Having her company seemed to ease the pressing questions of whether the Chantry would eventually catch up with him or how his parents would react to his escape. It was becoming easier to occupy his time with labelling and explaining, and it gave him a sense of purpose. Kalvindir was even beginning to enjoy the odd questions that Connor had started asking.

When he had finally wiped down the surface of the counter with warm water and vinegar, he heard a familiar voice in the front room. He collected the bunch of Shartan's Tears and a cloth sack and started pulling the dried petals, using the opportunity to eavesdrop.

Meanwhile, Endra had other plans and immediately filled his mind with the echo of endless questions regarding the herbs and their general purpose. He shushed her.

_Listen to the Hero of Ferelden. She's important you know. Stopped a Blight, killed an Archdemon even._

That seemed enough to capture her attention. Somewhere in the shadows of his thoughts she stirred.

Connor moved his stool so that he could watch her out of the corner of his eye. She was reclining in front of the fire, with a pained expression on her face. Her arms were crossed and she nibbled on the corner of her thumbnail. As he listened, he lost himself in his work and mindlessly separated petal from stem.

"They have him in custody. I'm sending Nathaniel Howe over to question him."

Connor perked up once he realized she was speaking about her attacker. Over the past few days, a constant stream of mages came through Kalvindir's doors either seeking the latest news or divulging the latest rumour on the street. It was common knowledge that she had been attacked by a mage and Connor was convinced that it was Revik. He leaned forward, hoping for more detail, but she caught his glance. Connor quickly averted his gaze but he was sure that she had caught him.

Her expression remained unchanged, leaving Connor unsure whether his eavesdropping had offended her. She shifted her weight in the chair, propped her elbow on the arm and played with her thick braid that hung over her shoulder. "Ever since I spent the night in the Chantry, I've been having extremely vivid nightmares."

Kalvindir crossed his arms over his chest and thought for a moment. "You think this is Chantry's fault?"

"I'm not sure. For some reason, I think it is some side effect of the cuff. Like it intensified my connection to the Fade once it was removed." She bit one side of her lip and she continued to think on her situation. Connor noticed dark circles under her eyes, further evidence of the punishment the nightmares had inflicted.

"And your dreams… are they same every night?"

She stared blankly into the fire and light danced across her face, flecking her deep brown eyes with glowing embers. Connor stopped plucking and stared, watching her far away expression as if she was attempting to repress an uncomfortable memory. She nodded.

Kalvindir hummed in acknowledgement and paced about his room, inspecting his supply cabinet, taking samples of herbs from a number of drawers and adding them to a small leather pouch.

"Do you wish to tell Kalvindir subject of bad dreams?"

Connor quietly continued his task, completely entranced in the discussion. Endra was, as well, and remained completely in the background. After a noticeable stretch of time, Nuraya, still staring into the fire said, "The Archdemon."

A shiver etched down Connor's spine. The mounted head at Warden Headquarters still frightened him. He could not imagine seeing it in a dream, let alone in the flesh. Nuraya's quiet demeanour made it easy for Connor to forget her past accomplishments.

Kalvindir stopped and folded his arms. "You tell Grey Wardens about this?"

"Not yet. But, there is something different about these dreams. They're familiar—I've had them before. I'm still dreaming of Urthemiel."

"Then situation is not as dire as I feared. Until I can see cuff in person, I cannot understand its nature."

He passed her the pouch. "Here. Some sleep tea. Drink strong cup before bed."

Nuraya sunk deeper into the chair. "Getting to sleep is not the problem."

"I can make you a dream tea, but I am missing vital ingredient."

Kalvindir turned and looked directly at Connor. The acknowledgement startled him, causing his body to jerk and knife to fall from his hand and clatter to the floor. Kalvindir laughed. "Not as sneaky as you think, Leetle Markus. Come!"

The young mage made an attempt to organize the task that he had started, but Kalvindir made a gesture that told him not to worry about it.

Nuraya sat up and smiled at him, wearily. "Kalvindir tells me that all your hard work is paying off."

Connor took a seat, pulling down the sleeve on the arm that he had cut. His original scar had not fully healed and there was no way that he wanted to launch into a debate on Endra. He found the comment to be ironic, since he had attributed his recent progress to the little demon. He was thankful that she only needed the one blood summons. He wasn't sure he would have the stomach to maintain his attachment to her if it required frequent bleedings.

**Please explain what you mean by Demon, Outfader.**

Since this was the wrong time to discuss the finer points of demonology, he told her it was time for him to pay attention to the Hero, which seemed to be enough to settle her down again.

Connor then realized that he was in the awkward situation where a response was expected from him. "Uh…thanks. I like making new recipes. Especially ones that I have not done at the Circle. Speaking of which, any word? Are they still after me?"

Nuraya pursed her lips. "They will always hunt you, Connor. But I have learned nothing new. I haven't seen your parents since I first arrived in Denerim. Although, I am sure they are still worried sick."

A pang of regret and longing churned his stomach. His parents. Would they be proud of him now, or ashamed?

"Leetle Markus. Since you doing better with crafting of herbs, I am thinking you might enjoy new task."

Connor looked up at the large grinning mage standing over him. Something told him that he was not going to like what he was about to hear.

"I need to make dream tea for Miss Nuraya, but most important ingredient is missing. I need  _Amantia lunexa_. Very difficult to procure, but very necessary. No substitute for this."

"Moon Caps?" Nuraya perked up. "Aren't they poisonous? And don't they only grow in the Deep Roads?"

"Poison, yes, if use too much. But just a leetle from the gill and it will give you a dark and restful sleep. Takes away all dreams. Yes, they grow in Deep Roads, but also under Denerim. I know good spot. Leetle Markus can go tonight and get me Moon Caps."

**Outfader should comply with large mage. Much to learn from the under city.**

He had no intention of arguing. This was the first real job with responsibility that he had been given since he had arrived at the Mage's Collective. The irony that this was in the most part due to Endra's appearance was not lost on Connor. He nodded with a wide smile.

"You know Connor, I have not had enough adventure in Denerim—I think it's about high time I change that. Why don't I come with you?" Nuraya said. "And it's not like I will be looking forward to a good night's sleep until this is done."

"Excellent idea." Kalvindir rubbed his hands together then rummaged through a shelf of scrolls. "I find map. Entrance to tunnels is at mouth of River Drakon. Palace bank…"

~0oOo0~

"I think this is it," Nuraya said, squatting in front of a storm drain clogged with dead leaves. The tide was out and the bone-chilling fog help hide their suspicious activity from the City Guard.

Connor leaned on the willow staff that she had given him, thrilled to finally have one to call his own. This one in particular had a silverite fitting on the end that was etched with runes. According to Nuraya, this would enable him to send a small fireball at an enemy and he could not wait to test it out. His hands tingled as he clutched it tighter, the magic zinging in and out of him as if it were breathing.

Once the sun had set behind the Denerim skyline, she had arrived at Kalvindir's to collect him and gave him the staff as well as a leather chest plate.

"I learned the hard way that an unprotected mage is a party's weakest link. Whoever thought to send a mage to battle without armor, was clearly on the side of the Chantry. Imagine sending a templar without a helm, or a bowman without a quiver!" She said as she tightened his buckles. Even though the armour was rather plain, it had a thick weave and straightened his posture. With staff in hand, he felt even more invincible.

"Are we expecting trouble?"

"As a mage exploring little known passages, it is best to be prepared."

In the gully outside the tunnel entrance, the peepers filled the early night air. He stuck the tip of his staff into the grate and dragged out a sopping bunch of leaves from the previous summer. The sound made a wet, squishy noise and echoed through the tunnel.

"Kalvindir did not bother to mention that he'd be sending us into the sewers." Connor wrinkled his nose and expected his senses to be assaulted by the stench of Denerim's waste, but the expected wave of decay did not come.

"I think this is part of the original storm sewer. The entire system was rebuilt and diverted at one point in time."

"Still, fancy crawling through that?"

Nuraya wrinkled her nose as well and giggled. "Come now, we can't call it an adventure unless we get a little dirty."

He and Endra had made a pact even before they had left Kalvindir's: she could direct his observations, if she kept her other comments to a minimum. He did not have time to explain his history with Nuraya to his little demon, but somehow, he got the distinct impression that she understood that they had a unique bond.

Connor passed Nuraya his staff and took hold of the rusty grate. He was expecting to need a key but it opened with little effort.

They only needed to crawl through the mouth of the old sewer for a few feet and then it opened up into a passageway, large enough to walk through. The walls were a smooth ancient stone, covered in patches of moss. The roof was arched and badly cracked. Water constantly dripped which echoed through the winding tunnels. It was oppressively dark, but an orb of sunny light radiated from Nuraya's staff.

"According to the map, there is an antechamber further west. Kalvindir said he had found Moon Caps there the last time he came here." Nuraya folded the map and tucked it up inside her sleeve then extended her arm to illuminate the tunnel where they tentatively walked.

The constant echo of dripping water had Connor on constant vigil. He was wound tighter than a Revered Mother's corset, ready to unleash a fireball at a moment's call.

"Easy there, Champion." Nuraya held out a hand behind her, to stay his offence. "Nothing down here except you, me and the sewer rats."

Connor wished that he believed her. Endra kept her end of the bargain, but he could feel her incessantly scratching at the back of his mind, like a dog desperately pawing a door.

They continued through the under city, keeping vigil on what they could see in the thin light. Their ragged shadows danced behind them and cast strange figures upon the damp walls.

"There should be another doorway here on the left…ˮ Nuraya's voice trailed off as she pushed forward.

The tunnels were much longer than the map alluded. A dark doorway eventually flickered into view and Nuraya held out her staff to investigate. Connor was not sure he wanted to pass though the doorway riddled thick in cobwebs. Chanya used to tell him stories of bear-sized spiders infesting the Kinloch's storerooms—and he was quite sure their cousins had taken up residence here. Just as he was convinced that this was the worst idea that Kalvindir had ever contrived, a flash in the corner of the small enclave caught his eye. Nuraya must have spotted it too and directed her light in that direction.

"Ah ha! There are fungus among us."

Connor was so on edge that he had forgotten how to laugh.

In the corner, a cluster mushrooms grew in the moss and slime. Their gills phosphoresced softly, like the inside of an oyster shell. The cap was speckled with shimmering patches of blue. As Connor picked them and carefully placed them in the leather sack Kalvindir had given him, flecks of glowing dust swirled in the still air. He held his breath for fear that the stories of Moon Cap poison were true. Kalvindir insisted that Connor always leave two behind, to ensure the survival of his supply.

"How many did you pick?" Nuraya whispered.

"Seven. Didn't Kalvindir say he needed twenty?"

"Come on, he marked another spot on the map. I have the feeling we're collecting a fair bit more than is needed for tea."

"You know Kalvindir. Always looking to make a sovereign."

To Connor it seemed as though they had walked more than half the night, weaving through the maze of passages and antechambers as indicated on the rough map. Apart from damp debris and the lamp-like eyes of a few curious rodents, the under city was rather dull and empty. They had fifteen Moon Caps in the bag and there was no sign that Nuraya was ready to give up and return.

After another steady trek, further into the dripping depths, they came upon a crumbling wall. Nuraya thought this would make a good place for a break.

"I once spent three weeks in the Deep Roads under Orzammar." She offered him a water skin and he drank, wishing it was that sour wine that he had shared with Revik and Yaleen. The wine helped settle his fear. He wished he knew her secret for pushing through the unknown with such determination.

"During the Blight?" Connor asked, fearing that discussion of matters concerning the Deep Roads, the Blight and Darkspawn would do little to calm his nerves.

Nuraya nodded as she tightened the straps on her greaves. Connor plunked himself down on the driest spot he could find and balanced his staff across his thighs.

"Yep. Three long weeks underground with Oghren, Alistair and Zevran."

"The King went with you?"

"Well, he wasn't the king then. Just Alistair the Warden," she sighed.

"I've met Oghren. He's pretty funny. Who is Zevran?"

"He was a Crow. I don't know what's become of him now. Part of me would like to think that he's gone into retirement, but somehow, I doubt it."

"And what's the King like?"

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "He's kind… and shy. Has a big heart. Brave too."

"Someone at the Circle told me that he was once a templar."

"Almost. He was an initiate. His skills actually came in handy a few times. If the Chantry only knew how formidable mages and templars could be when they worked together, as equals."

Connor furrowed his brow. "Wasn't it hard working with someone who thought that your very existence brought doom upon all of Thedas?"

"We didn't talk about theology much. Once he got to know me … I think his opinions about mages changed."

"So why didn't the Circle change after the Blight ended? I heard that the King made it so you did not have to return to Kinloch and you opened up your own healing practice in your hometown."

She pursed her lips into a thin smile. Connor wondered if he had hit a nerve.

Nuraya explained, "The story that no one bothers to tell is the truth. Funny that, eh? During Alistair's coronation, he honoured me with a gift of my choice. I asked that all mages be given their independence. And he granted it."

"Really?" No one at the Circle had told him that, "so what happened?"

"Take a wild guess. The Chantry happened. His Highness is not the only one who wields power in Ferelden—" She turned her head sharply. "Did you hear that?"

Connor shook his head, but his heart seemed to acknowledge the inevitability that they were not alone.

Nuraya waved her hand over the top of her staff, dulling the light dramatically. They had just enough to prevent themselves from walking into a wall or over a crevice. With a finger, she encouraged Connor to follow. He became very conscious of where he placed his feet, careful not to scuttle a rock or splash in a puddle.

Far in the distance, from a direction that Connor found difficult to discern, he heard what Nuraya had—a low humming. It was too low and far away to determine whether it was natural or not. He dared not imagine what might be the source of the noise and forced himself to follow her. His first instinct was to turn and run in the other direction. His stomach knotted and he was sure that Nuraya could hear the pounding of his heart.

"Everything will be fine. Now let's see what the commotion is all about."

Connor nodded but every fibre in his being revolted at the thought. Every horror story ever told at the Circle always involved the intrepid hero opening the wrong door or following an innocent sound to an inevitable doom.

When they arrived at the end of the long corridor they discovered that it branched off in two directions. Nuraya stood quietly at the junction. When the humming resumed, she followed the sound. It became more and more evident that it was chanting.

_But who would be chanting in these remote and forgotten passages_?

He regretted asking this question.

**More of your kind.**

His ever-present fear had forgotten that Endra was still there, quietly listening, quietly observing. He knew now was not time to wonder how she knew this.

He dared to ask just one more question.  _How many more?_

Knowing that they were outnumbered almost two to one was all that he needed to know. Picking up his pace, he tapped Nuraya on the shoulder.

"Are you sure we should do this?" he whispered.

"No. But I've faced the Architect, two broodmothers and an Archdemon." Her statement sounded as if she were trying to convince herself, which instantly made Connor want to vomit.

The passageway ended at a ledge with a crumbled half-wall. A set of stairs dropped to a level below. Flickering light danced on the walls and Nuraya completely extinguished her staff and held a finger over her lips—as if Connor would dare utter a peep. He followed on tip-toes to the ledge, keeping low and working every muscle to ensure silence. They both peered over the wall to the room below.

Around the chamber's sunken floor were countless specks of light—candles had been placed in every crevice, corner and free surface along the perimeter's edge. In the centre of the floor, a white substance that Connor guessed to be either salt or chalk formed a six pointed star inside a flaming sun. At each point stood a dark hooded figure, their faces well-hidden in deep cowls. A brazier smouldered in the centre, the smoke curling to the rocky ceiling and drifting in swirling tentacles. Connor listened carefully but could not determine which language they were chanting. He had never heard anything like it before, even from the Senior Enchanters at the Circle.

"Seeker Herzog asked me if I had seen that symbol before." She said in a bare whisper. "It was found on my attacker."

"What does it mean?"

She shrugged and continued to watch the spectacle unfold.

The chanting abruptly stopped. Each of the figures held their hands to the centre of the circle bearing knives that reflected in the candlelight. Hands were sliced one-by-one. As blood was offered to the fire, the chanting became syncopated and dire.

From a doorway opposite from the stairwell where Connor was hiding, a seventh figure bearing a large twisting staff entered. The chanting abruptly stopped.

"Brothers and Sisters of the Order of the Dragon, the mother's love is with you." The central figure was obviously a male, but his hood shrouded his face in shadow.

"And with you brother," replied the others in haunting unison.

"We have lost a brother to the Chantry."

"May the mother's wrath silence his tongue, may her love guide him through the Fade," replied the others.

The leader approached one of the figures on the eastern-most point of the star.

"Please, Brothers and Sister, welcome your new Sister."

"May the love of the mother guide you, Sister. The Order of the Dragon welcomes you."

The newest initiate prostrated to the leader. He touched the tip of his staff to the back of her neck. As Connor continued to watch in equal parts horror and curiosity, he believed that he was witnessing the newest member receive a brand of the flaming sun encircling a six-pointed star.

"To prove your worth Dragon-Sister, you must undergo a trial."

"In the name of the Mother, in the name of the Returned," the others chanted.

The initiate rose to her knees, keeping her head bowed. "I will do what thou wilt."

"Bring me Prince Brandel. Alive and unharmed."

Nuraya looked at Connor, horror and shock in her expression. Without a word, she slipped to the darkness of the tunnel; there was no need to ask Connor to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Thanks so much for reading! I really appreciate the comments. There will be a one week hiatus in posting as I will be on vacation and not going to have access to the internet. Good thing there will be alcohol! I will resume upon my return, fear not!


	30. Kessler

**Chapter 30: Kessler**

 

It almost qualified as the best ale Kessler Hawke had ever tasted. Of course, the recent turn of events might have clouded his better judgement. The last time he was able to enjoy a hearty ale was at the Wounded Axe, and it served what could only be described as warm horse piss. But ale at the Dragon’s Bane was cool, creamy and brewed to perfection. He was certain that the drone of the crowd, their bawdy gossip and the low haze of burning tobacco also added to the flavour. For most of the afternoon, he and the Orlesians had been tucked in a dark corner, sampling the delights of the dockside tavern.  An oil lamp flickered languidly in the centre of the table, barely illuminating their surroundings. Dark was good—it was both comforting and safe.

The bar wench had just returned to their table, her chemise hanging just over her ivory shoulder. So far his charms had succeeded in discovering that her name was Sonja and that she was unmarried. To not have to spend another night alone would make this the perfect day. The headiness of his near-inebriation had an introspective effect, knowing that he was one drink away from an emboldened tongue. As he nursed the ale, studying the ring of foam that clung to the inside of the drinking horn,  he knew that acting too bold or brash might scare her away, perhaps even incite a fist fight amongst the locals. He was aiming for a more subtle approach, like a slow, seductive Antivan dance of the veils.

“What will it be, gentlemen?” Sonja asked, her accent spiced with Nevarran flavour.

Saunière barely looked up from his books and had hardly spoken a word to anyone since their arrival in Cumberland. That suited Kessler just fine, but he had to wonder what other heresies he would learn from those battered texts. Thinking back on his recent theology lesson in the back of the wool merchant’s wagon made him finish the dregs of his ale. At least the books kept Saunière quiet. Whether the professor was aware or not, his gnarled finger kept tracing the contours of the flaming sun encircling the six-pointed star on the book he had stolen from the Nevarran National Library. In a fleeting moment of levity, he thought on the symbol, wondering what it could mean. And then his empty tankard drew his attention again.

“Another, gorgeous.” Kessler said brightly, quickly forgetting matters of theology and offering Sonja a playful wink. 

Tassilo, still working on his first ale, rolled his eyes in response.

_Perhaps I’m coming on too strong. I am definitely out of practice._

Sonja did not seem to mind; he was sure she had to endure worse with the likes of this crowd—a motley crew of sailors, craftsmen, and mercenaries who worked hard and played even harder. In one corner, a table was flipped after an arduous arm-wrestling game ended unexpectedly, in another, tankards were raised and voices croaked loud and out of tune. As he surveyed the raucous crowd, he was quite certain that it was best to avoid getting on the wrong side of any one of these patrons. A sailor with a thick black beard teased his companions with the tip of his scimitar; a bald dwarf with a long braided beard argued over the score of a game of dice. The bar wench quirked a crooked smile that instantly reminded him of Isabela. He could not help but smile in return.

“Tass, have another! Our ship does not leave for another two days.”

Kessler saw Saunière’s eyes leer over the top of his parchment. No one was looking forward to their journey to Jader.

Tassilo put a hand over the mouth of his tankard and politely declined Sonja’s offer. She threw her hip aside and swaggered to the bar.

Kessler leaned deep into his seat and prepared a pipe. The entire scene reminded him too closely of the times he had spent at the Hanged Man; the thought immediately sent a pang of regret to his stomach. The pipe would soon calm the worry. News of the Champion had yet to filter into this area of town—that or no one in particular cared. Dissolving into anonymity was his goal. And that meant no cards, no rum and subtle flirting.  

Besides the nagging question regarding who he would spend his evening with, he was fretting over their approaching journey to Ferelden. He had not stepped foot in the country of his birth since he had lost his sister during the Blight. He wondered how Lothering had fared and whether he’d still recognize it. Was their old farmstead still there? Surely this adventure would allow him at least one visit. Those thoughts quickly led to more memories of his family, thus making him more impatient for his ale. 

“Where is this Hero, exactly?” he asked, blowing a smoke ring in Tassilo’s direction, hoping to distract the anxieties he had just churned up. His started bouncing one leg nervously, another sign that his ale was too slow in coming.

“That is an excellent question.” Tassilo turned to Saunière still buried in the aged document. “ _Professeur_ …”

Saunière hummed indifferently, not bothering to look up from his reading. Kessler could only guess that this was common behaviour, as the professor’s lack of attention did not faze Tassilo in the least.

“Have we any idea where we are to find the Hero, _Professeur_?” Tassilo asked.

Saunière set down the document and scratched the top of his head. His silver hair always had a wildness about it, but with all the time they had spent on the road, it had become even more feral looking. “Why, we’re going to Denerim, without question.”

“Is that where she is?” Kessler continued to puff on his pipe.

“I have no idea where she might be, but I must see Brother Genitivi and I am assuming there will be enough rumours and gossip about the city that we will be able to learn where she might be.”

“Ferelden is no small country. We could spend weeks trying to track her down. Last I heard she was stationed at Vigil’s Keep in Amaranthine. That is at least a three day ride from Denerim.” Kessler stated.

“What do you know of her?” Tassilo asked Kessler with genuine curiosity.

“Not much. Anders knew her personally. He did not speak very often of her, to be honest. I don’t think that they parted on the best of terms. If he had kept in touch with her, he did not speak of it. And I had a couple Dwarves in my employ, a father and a son who had followed her during the Blight. But they had lost touch with her by the time they had arrived in Kirkwall.”

“And what did they make of her?” Tassilo asked.

“Oh, the sun shone out of her magical hiney. If you believed Bodhan Feddic, the woman did no wrong. Just what I need … a mage with a hero complex… or a hero with a mage complex.”  

Sonja placed another ale in front of Kessler and he paid her another flirtatious wink. “So tell me Sonja…”

“Yes, messere?”

“What do you know of the Hero of Ferelden?”

By the expression on her face, he could tell that this was not the question she had been expecting. Perhaps he missed his opportunity and should have propositioned her instead. He figured that it was as good of a topic as any, especially since he was still angling for a subtle approach. So busy in finding the most fashionable and tactful method of easing her into his bed, he did not stop to think whether the question would attract the wrong kind of attention.

She placed a delicate finger over her pouty lips and starred momentarily stared at the ceiling as she thought it over. “Very little. Ever since she resigned as Warden-Commander, no one has much to say about her. She’s not very heroic if you ask me. What kind of hero just disappears, never to be heard of again? Did you know one of her Blight companions is here?”

“Here?” He tapped on the table with a finger, wishing he had said something more flirtatious and less wishy-washy, but he had come up short for a change. _Fuck, I really am losing my touch._  

She clutched the serving tray and hugged it flat against her chest, shifting her weight to one hip. Her lips were delicious and plump, just waiting for that first bite. Kessler could have sworn she had given him an inviting look.

“The Archmage at the College—everyone knows that she left the Ferelden Circle to follow the Hero and had defended the city during the Battle of Denerim. She’s somewhat of a local hero… if you can count a mage as a hero.”

“The College’s Archmage?” Tassilo abruptly stood, grinding the chair out from under him. “I believe her name is Wynne.”

Sonja nodded.

 “Come on,” he said to Kessler after he reached deep in his pocket and handed her enough coin to cover the beer and a generous tip.

Kessler looked down at his ale and frowned. It seemed to call his name—a sweet, lusty beacon. To add insult to injury, Sonja politely excused herself and took up her casual flirtations at another table. When the impatient tapping of Tassilo’s boot could no longer be ignored, he conceded and pushed the tankard toward the absorbed professor. Without looking up from his reading, Saunière wrapped his gnarled joints through the handle and offered a sort of toast before he took a sip, his eyes still scanning the pages.

~0oOo0~

Cumberland’s architects and ad-hoc carpenters built the city with little regard for logic and order. In fact, Kessler had to wonder if rational thought had at all been involved. The city sprawled along the banks of the Waking Sea, and endless tangle of clapboard hovels that wove amongst the once great stone towers, creating a vast, interconnected web of slapdash neighbourhoods. Alleys and lanes criss-crossed this way and that, sometimes emptying into bustling market squares or without warning, would lead to a dead-end. When the residents were in need of space, they built upwards. On some of the more narrow streets, the tall, wooden structures permanently blocked out the sun except during high noon. Residents seemed to take great pride in their little piece of Cumberland and had lovingly arranged an accent or flourish in which to set their place apart from all the rest. This might be a draping of colourful silk over a window or a miniature garden on a balcony. The noise was equal to the garish clutter; minstrels strummed folk-songs on lutes, while merchants haggled over the din of the milling crowds.

Kessler’s state of partial drunkenness settled in his head like a warm sweater. With every tavern he passed, he yearned to duck into its inviting darkness but Tassilo’s brisk pace quashed those desires. He pushed through the crowds to keep pace with the Orlesian elf, who looked more akin to an Antivan Crow than an elitist scholar from the Université; his dark stubble and bruised eye, still apparent after his confrontation with the Seekers in Nessum, hardened his refined demeanour.  He towered over Tassilo, and most of the locals for that matter, leaving him feeling even more self-conscious and conspicuous. Slouching seemed to help draw attention away, but even then, his posture projected unnecessary guilt. Kessler just wanted to blend. Being tall never helped him in that regard. 

“So where is this place?” he asked.

“On the outskirts of the city.”

Kessler gave an audible groan. He was more in the mood for drinking than walking. Given the size of Cumberland, he knew that it would involve a lot of walking. “Have you been there before?” That statement was stated with a dash more exasperation than he had intended.

“Once. When I first started working under Professeur Saunière, he sent me on a wild goose chase to find a rare document that was rumoured to be in the College library.”

Kessler was not sure he wanted to know any more about their academic intrigue. It only seemed to make things more complicated. “Did you maintain any of your contacts there?”

They stopped at an intersection and waited for the butcher’s cart to lumber past. Tassilo gave a sideways glance and looked to the sky, tapping his feet impatiently as he waited for the road to clear. "My contact’s name was Evangeline."

After they dashed across the cobblestone street, Tassilo abruptly turned left down another crowded alley. Kessler groaned again, unhappy at the quick pace that Tassilo had set. It only made him thirsty. When he finally caught up, he said breathlessly, "So was she a Senior Enchanter?"

"At the time she was a Knight. Now she is Knight-Captain at the White Spire."

Kessler stopped in his tracks and grabbed Tassilo by the arm. "Are you fucking kidding me? A Templar?" His voice strained as he tried to maintain a whisper.

Tassilo crossed his arms impatiently. "One just does not show up at the College of Enchanters and expect full access to the library without consent from the templars. She was my contact, but I assure you, she is not within a league of the College ... she is posted to the White Spire. Now, if you will just calm down... we don't have all day." Abruptly he marched away, only to turn around a few paces later. He wagged his finger as he spoke. "Now, unless you want to spend the next few months touring around Ferelden, visiting every outpost that smells of wet dog, I suggest you pick up your pace and follow me. And if I was not already clear, the time for ale is over." His voice was sharp and he emphasized each word, attempting to temper a pent-up outburst.

Furrowing his brow and scratching the top of his head, he was unsure how he had triggered Tassilo’s ire, and how his thirst for ale had become so apparent. Uninterested in getting to the bottom of Tassilo’s need for alacrity, he kept up quietly for the remainder of their long trek through never ending alleys and pedestrian-clogged streets. 

Hours later, they finally found their way to Cumberland’s outskirts. On a lonely cliff that reminded him of the Wounded Coast, sat a lonely stone tower. Kessler, not sure what he should expect, was rather underwhelmed. The rambling tower with its crumbling walls, green with ivy and moss, did not conjure the splendour of a college where the greatest mages in all of Thedas converged. At the bottom of the cliff, the sea churned foam and froth amid sharp rocks, covered thick with kelp. Gulls and terns rode the wind currents and circled the waters below. As they approached the front gate, Kessler could smell the sweet scent of the sea on the wind, but it brought him no comfort.  

Both iron gates were swung open wide, expectantly awaiting visitors. Kessler hesitated. The only Circle he was familiar with was the Gallows and those oppressive memories were enough to last a lifetime.  He stopped in his tracks and thought long about stepping foot inside the courtyard.

“They don’t post guards at the front gates anymore. There will be a Knight-Commander stationed here, but for the most part, templar presence is relatively low-key.” Tassilo said, his rankled moment clearly having passed on the breeze. “You never were a Circle mage, were you?”

Kessler kept his arms wrapped tight around himself and shook his head. “My parents were pretty adamant in keeping me out of the Circle. My father was a mage, as was my sister.” He grew quiet as he pondered on their memory, unsure how much more he was willing to divulge. To prevent Tassilo from asking questions on that matter, he went on. “After what I saw at the Gallows in Kirkwall, I’d have to say that I am probably one of the lucky ones.”

“The mages here are mostly engaged in study. There are no apprentices here, so mages are allowed to come and go as they wish. Shall we?” Tassilo took a step forward, but Kessler remained unsure whether he was ready to take that next step. That lovely warm heady feeling of near-inebriation was now long gone.

“Tassilo, who am I?”

The elf furrowed his brow at the question, but then changed his expression to acknowledge that he understood. “Right. Why, you are Arlen Greer of course. What was your backstory, a sellsword from Tantervale?”

“Indeed. Well, let’s get this over with.”

The outer courtyard of the College was expansive and covered in a patchwork of garden plots. Small gravel paths separated the various species and mages in straw hats were bent over, as focused and concentrated as Saunière was with his texts. They caught an elderly mage’s attention as they approached. She held her hand over her brow to shield the sunlight and walked toward them.

“We don’t want any.” She said in an unfriendly tone.

“Excuse me?” Tassilo asked.

“Whatever you’re selling… we don’t want any. So just turn around and be on your merry way. If I have to get the Knight-Commander to chase you out of here… I will. You don’t want to know how cranky he gets when he misses his tea with the Loyalists.”

“We would like to meet with the Archmage. We do not wish to intrude upon you any further.” Kessler interjected, pulling out all the charm that he had learned amongst the snooty nobles that his mother associated with in Hightown. _I sure hope this old battleaxe is not the Archmage…_  

The woman sneered and then wagged her thumb at the corner of the garden where a white-haired lady sat reading under a cherry tree. “I ain’t her bloody secretary, so go see her for yourself,” she croaked.

Both Kessler and Tassilo left the conversation without further comment. Wynne watched them saunter through the garden with a neutral expression. In a sudden moment of near panic, Kessler hoped that they had no other connection than through the Hero of Ferelden. Surely his brother would have no business coming to the College of Enchanters? Hopefully their resemblance was even less apparent with his brother in templar armor. Tassilo crossed his arms at his chest and bowed, clearly never forgetting the finer points of protocol. Kessler did the same so he did not appear rude or out of place.

“Gentlemen,” said the Archmage.

“Well met. I am Tassilo Dorfadhal, from the Université d’Orlais, assistant to the esteemed Professeur Berenger Saunière. This is my…” Tassilo paused, almost stuttering to make up a plausible story. “This is my bodyguard, Arlen Greer of Tantervale.”

She politely nodded to both men, looking Kessler over a little too closely. He tried to appear a little tougher and more bodyguard-like, by puffing out his chest.  It was obvious that Tassilo wanted to do all the talking, and believed that this idea was the most prudent, although the both of them were probably the most curious pair to call upon the College of Enchanters.

“We hear that you were one of the Hero of Ferelden’s companions during the Blight.” said Tassilo.

Wynne shifted on the stone bench, pressing a leather bookmark between the open pages of her book. “Yes.” She looked down again as if continuing to read. _And Tassilo thought I was rude wanting to drink ale all afternoon. These bookish types all have bad fucking manners_.

Tassilo quickly glanced over at Kessler, and the tall mage shifted his weight and crossed his arms at his chest. _I’m Mr. Tough-guy. No one screws with Arlen Greer of Tantervale!_

“I am here at the behest of Professeur Saunière. He is interested in writing her biography. Exactly where is she at the moment, do you know?”

Wynne did not look up from her reading. _She really needs to meet the Old Man. A perfect match!_ “I have not seen her since she was Commander of the Grey in Amaranthine.  That was many years ago, about a year after the Archdemon was slain.”

“And to your knowledge, does she remain at this post?” Kessler asked, trying to keep his impatience in check.

She looked up and pursed her lips, her eyes crinkling in reaction to the warm afternoon sunshine. “And why should I tell an Orlesian scholar in need of a bodyguard her whereabouts? I am sure the Chantry would love to tell her story … from their perspective.” She snapped the book shut and stood. “If you will excuse me gentlemen, I have business to attend to at the College. This is no place for Chantry scholars and their sellswords.”

Tassilo and Kessler stared at each other with panicked expressions as she walked away. Kessler took a deep breath. _Surely she is not in league with the Seekers or anyone with the Chantry for that matter. She obviously knows how to play their game if she is at the College. No doubt she has heard what went down in Kirkwall… what to do, what to do… either I tell her and she’ll save us weeks of playing find-the-hero in Ferelden or she’ll turn me over to her Templar buddies. I fucking love this shit. Shall I toss just toss a coin? What the fuck. She won’t tell Arlen Greer shit. Here goes nothing…_

“Would it surprise you to learn that I am not from Tantervale?” Kessler said, adding as much brevity to his tone as he could without sounding desperate or threatening.

Wynne stopped in her tracks. “Not particularly.”

“And my name isn’t Greer. It’s Hawke… from—”

The white-haired mage turned around and finished his admission. “From Kirkwall.” She took in a breath and appeared to hold it for a second before reducing the distance between them. He quickly scanned her expression in order to read her and swore he sensed _relief_ of all things. 

 “I cannot speak to you here,” she replied.

“We’re staying at the Dragon’s Bane, near the…”

“Dock yards. Yes, I know of where you speak. I will meet you there after dark. Who else are you with? Are you with Anders?”

“Just Professeur Saunière. I have not heard from Anders since the Kirkwall Chantry…”

Wynne furrowed her brow again. “Best not to speak of that here. Later, gentlemen!” Abruptly she turned and scurried into the College.

Kessler turned to look at Tassilo. “Do you ever get tired of the reaction that I can elicit from people?”

“Never.” Tassilo said, and both men laughed heartily together.

~0oOo0~

Kessler was not surprised to find Saunière where they had last left him. The Dragon’s Bane had emptied, and by the looks of it, a massive brawl had taken place while they were gone. Chairs lay scattered in splinters, smashed bottles and crockery littered the worn-wooden floors. For a moment, Kessler imagined the chaos that had erupted, with Saunière quietly reading his text, completely oblivious to what was going on around him. It made him snigger under his breath. 

He and Tassilo took their seats. “What happened here?” Kessler looked around, hoping to get Sonja’s attention, but she was nowhere to be found.

Saunière looked up, surprised to see the both of them, and looked around. “Looks like there was a fight?”

“Were you here the whole time?” Tassilo asked.

“Of course I was, where else would I be? That was a quick trip… what did you find out?”

Kessler was restless and the shambles of the Dragon’s Bane had extinguished his deep-seated desire to forget all his troubles at the bottom of a tankard. While Tassilo detailed their meeting with Wynne with Saunière, he took it upon himself to find the nearest broom and began sweeping and returning the furniture to its rightful place. The proprietor—a man called Torold Westerfyre—appreciated the help and even tapped a new keg for the occasion. He complained bitterly about a local mercenary group stirring up trouble amongst the locals, and Kessler was glad to not hear the name Vipers come up. Sonja, he learned, was his daughter, and was promptly sent home when the fight had started. Once the tavern was set right—as much as was possible without involving major carpentry—Kessler rejoined Tassilo and _Le Professeur_. Torold followed soon behind with a rich stew and dumplings.

It was so easy for Kessler to slip into the warm embrace of the quiet tavern. The calm headiness from the ale had returned, the oil lamps were relit and he tipped his chair back and leaned against the wall, laying a long leg over the table, quietly watching Tassilo and the Professeur debate the finer points of their translation. He wasn’t listening to what they were saying but watched how Saunière’s forehead wrinkled when he was ready to concede to Tassilo’s argument and how Tassilo’s long fingers seemed to dance in front of him, always accentuating his thoughts. If the hooded woman had not suddenly appeared at the table, Kessler may have contentedly dozed off.

They stood and greeted her with a quick bow and Kessler pulled out a chair for her. He gestured for Torold to bring another round. As she took her seat, she lowered her hood, and smiled warily at the men gathered round the table. The Professor closed his research and put it aside, out of sight. After a brief round of introductions, Wynne wove her fingers together on the table and began.

“The last time I spoke with Nuraya Amell was in Amaranthine almost five years ago. I have not seen her since, but she has written me a few times—nothing serious, more or less a note to say hello and that she had been thinking of me. Once she resigned her commission as Commander, the King enabled her to settle in her home village of Dungarven—a hamlet just west of Gwaren.”

Not for a minute did Kessler think that Wynne came all this way to tell him that. He chewed on the tip of his pipe and continued to listen.

“One of my colleagues went in search for a Dr. Duchamp from the University. Do you know of him?” she asked Saunière.

Saunière leaned forward. “He was a good friend of mine. Lost him to the Darkspawn in Tylus Canyon. But a mage by the name of Fiona found us there… is this the colleague of whom you speak?”

The mage nodded once. “I have not seen her since. Although the Knight-Commander reports that she has recently returned to the White Spire. Can I ask if Fiona asked anything of you?”

This time Saunière looked nervous and seemed unsure whether he should divulge the rest of the story. Before he spoke, Wynne interrupted. “Fiona told me that she was going to send Duchamp to see Nuraya. I can only assume that in light of his death, she asked you. I am assuming this is the case because you’re asking me of her whereabouts.”

“Yes, she did ask that I find her. We are leaving for Ferelden in two days. However, it is my intention to make for Denerim first and head for this hamlet near Gwaren afterwards.” 

“And you…” she looked directly at Kessler. “How did you come to be involved? Fiona never mentioned involving you. Your story spreads throughout Thedas like a wildfire, but not within my wildest dreams did I expect you to become involved in… this.”

Kessler chuckled and leaned back casually, twiddling his thumbs in thought. “Fiona and I have never met. I just happened upon these two in Nessum and overheard them discussing the Hero. I’m looking for Anders. I figured that the Hero could help me locate him. She is the only person who still has a connection with him, who wasn’t directly involved in Kirkwall. Given that she is also a mage, I figured that I had a natural ally.”

“And can I ask why you looking for Anders? Hasn’t he already made your life uncomfortable?”

“He’s a friend. Friends help friends.”

“And we can only assume that the Chantry thinks this way as well.” Her eyes narrowed slightly as she asked her next question. “Did you help destroy the Chantry?”

Kessler had grown used to this question and it no longer offended him. Given his reputation, it did not much matter how involved he was, the Chantry was hunting him all the same. “Does it matter anymore? What’s done is done, and no one is really going to believe my side of the story anyway.” _What fucking can of worms have I opened now?_ “Look, my reasons for finding Anders are personal, not political. Ultimately, I’d love to find some way to sever his connection with Justice. You know about that, right?”

“I’ve heard rumours,” she replied evenly.  “If that is the case, you are heading in the wrong direction. Anders is in Tevinter.”

“And how did you come to know this?”

“Let’s just say I have my sources. The College has its own network. With regard to Kirkwall’s aftermath—the situation for all mages in Thedas has become dire. There is something else you should know.” She looked around, suspicious that someone else may have been eavesdropping, even though the rest of the tavern was all but deserted. She leaned low on the table and spoke barely above a whisper. “The events in Kirkwall have started a chain of events… it’s bigger than most suspect. Kirkwall’s acting Knight-Commander was sent to Denerim, but rumour is that it was a ruse so that a more conservative faction of the Chantry could take control. Mages continue to escape from the Gallows, some taking up Anders’ cause as apostates and some churning up unrest within the Circles. There are whispers in the halls of the College, that a faction of mages are threatening to declare their independence of the Chantry… to initiate an uprising…”

_So the situation is worse than we expected. Joy to the fucking Maker._

Saunière rubbed his forehead and stared at the table. “We would appreciate your discretion,” he stated slowly, his voice gravelly with concern. “So far we have not endeared ourselves to the Chantry. And for the record, Tassilo and I are pursuing this as a matter of personal interest… we are not working as agents of the Université, and by extension the Divine.”

“Nuraya told me that she and Fiona had made a pact during the Blight, although I am ignorant on the details. I assume Fiona was investigating something that related to the Chantry… or to the mages.  I gather you have found this?”

“Duchamp found something in Tylus that drew Fiona’s attention. Tassilo and I have picked up from where my esteemed associate had left off…”

Kessler cleared his throat and glowered. Not getting credit for that last trick in Nevarra City wounded his pride.

“… with help from Hawke of course,” Saunière added quickly. “What we’ve learned about Andraste and the Maker will shock the Chantry … and can play a significant role in the events of which you speak. However, what we have is inconclusive and incomplete. It would be worthless to bring it forward at this point, as it could be easily dismissed as conspiracy theory. We are now on the hunt for proof. I am thinking that Brother Genitivi might have the documents I need to fill in some of the holes. Do you suppose the Hero might have more?”

“I don’t know. Regardless, you have a natural ally of course. She’s well connected… I suggest that you make for Dungarven first. That is where she lives. And when you find her… can you pass along a message for her from me?” Wynne said.

“Of course.” Kessler said.

“Tell her that there is something afoot. The details are scarce, but there are rumours that Anders is working with Morrigan.”

 


	31. Nuraya

# 

As Nuraya crawled through the rotting leaves toward the dim light at the end of the sewer, she shot a quick glance over her shoulder, reassured that Connor still followed. His eyes caught the early morning light and were wide like the moon, the whites betraying his fear. When they had left the site of the ritual at the old cistern, a distant and vague scuttling sound haunted her, chasing her with fears they were being followed, but once they had started crawling through the last bit of tunnel, there was no other sound except for the soft squishing of mud and the occasional clack of their staves on the stone vault, so she chalked her earlier suspicions to her own fears and hyper vigilance. The rusty grate at the mouth of the tunnel still lay in the mud from where she had removed it earlier that evening. She picked up her pace, slithered through the small opening on her belly. Mud and slime oozed through her clothing and she got to her feet as soon as she was able, cracking her joints from the long, back-breaking journey. After wiping her hands on her backside, the only dry surface she could locate, she helped Connor to his feet.

“Was there anyone behind you?” she whispered, quickly replacing the grate and then stealing one last moment to peer back down the darkened tunnel. A silent darkness yawned back at her, offering her enough reassurance to keep her fear at bay. Connor replied with a negative grunt and followed her through the gully to the footpath from where they had first climbed down. She was not going to spend another moment near that tunnel and risk a confrontation with eight blood mages—eight mages associated with _the mother_. 

A rough path had been worn by many an adventurer into the muddy slope. The descent had been a precarious negotiation of slick stones and wet grass—the ascent would be a different sort of challenge. She took Connor’s staff and small satchel of moon caps that he still held with a white-knuckled grasp.

“Go on. I’ll keep an eye out.”  She nodded toward the path and without a word or complaint, he started to climb. There wasn’t even a sideways glance. She wondered if this experience would force him to reconsider his hair-brained scheme of joining the Wardens.

Dawn was about to break and a bank of brooding clouds would soon extinguish the thin band of fiery orange that had kindled the horizon. They had spent the better part of the night under the city. While the damp warrens could never be compared to the unending dread of the Deep Roads, the feeling of being buried alive had returned with a crushing vengeance. The relentless sensation of being slowly swallowed whole faded in the open air as the dampness chilled her joints, causing her shoulder to ache even more intensely. Even the lingering smell of the sewer and rotting leaves did not compare to the dry rot-stink of the Darkspawn under the mountain. As she watched Connor scrabble to the road ten feet above her, she had come to the conclusion that she was most likely claustrophobic, which struck her as deeply ironic given that she was still a Grey Warden. 

Connor peeked over the gully’s edge and reached down as far as he could, taking the tip of her staff as she strained to pass it to him. Once her hands were free, she made her way up to the road, trying to ignore her old shoulder injury. The ache returned from time to time—damp autumn days or spending too long in the garden would aggravate it. But no matter where or when it flared, it never failed to remind her of Alistair.

While travelling from Redcliffe to Kinlock Hold to convince Irving to send aid to Connor, she had been shield-bashed by a Darkspawn. At the time, she was nothing more than a recently harrowed mage, and a novice healer at best. Unable to adequately attend to her injury, she sent her company on ahead of her, deeply ashamed over her inadequacy and full of doubt whether she’d have any sway over the Blight. If Alistair had any reservations about her capabilities, he kept his opinions to himself. He did dote on her, she recalled, in his awkward and tender way. Those next few days were some of the fondest she had of the Blight. It was then that they had struggled to admit their feelings toward one another. How she blushed when she caught him stealing glances at her in the Circle dining room and how her heart nearly leapt from her chest when he touched her hand under the table.

As she continued her slippery climb, hoisting herself with her left arm and accompanying aching shoulder, she believed that her old injury would have healed nicely had it not been for the Archdemon. She had forgotten the details of how she had gotten hurt on the roof of Fort Drakon, whether it was one specific event or an accumulation of the entire battle, but whatever happened had irreparably injured her shoulder. The whole event was still a blur and she preferred that it stay that way.

Dawn had fully broken as she got to her feet. She took a last look into the gully and felt relatively reassured that they had not been followed. Connor was still white as a sheet and quieter than usual, his teeth chattering from the bone-chilling cold. She led him to a bench alongside of a darkened smithy and sat with him to catch her bearings, figuring that it was the only moment of respite they would be afforded in the coming hours.

She passed the young mage her water skin. “How are you?” She grasped his shoulder and gave him a reassuring shake. He offered no resistance and a weak grin.  

“Who were they?” he whispered.

“I haven’t the foggiest. Blood mages for certain. I want you to go straight away to Kalvindir’s and tell him everything that you saw.”

“Aren’t you coming with me?" 

She stood, ready to begin her sprint through the back alleys. “I must alert the Palace. We’ve already lingered too long. Make haste.”

She turned and dashed in the opposite direction into the fog, confident that Connor would find his way back unscathed, but she worried. Nuraya knew she should have gone back with him and he probably would have appreciated the company, but her urgency to see Alistair now consumed her.   

~0oOo0~

The palace gates were locked, just as she expected. With one testing rattle, one of the guards on duty immediately recognized her and opened it. The shrieking iron hinges shattered the calm morning quiet that had settled in the courtyard. All attempts at waltzing through with little or no attention were now dashed and the entire retinue of guards and other servants seemed to stop for a moment and eye her suspiciously as she scurried past. How the Hero of Ferelden found herself covered in mud would be the topic of breakfast discussions, she thought as she dashed through the courtyard, not particularly fond of being the subject of their wild speculation. She reduced her pace to a brisk walk, hoping that it would draw less attention and gossip. She passed through the main hall relatively unnoticed—save the porter who stared at the muddy footprints that trailed in her wake—and took the grand staircase toward the royal family’s apartment. As she reached the guarded double doors, she realized that someone was calling out to her.

“Lady Nuraya, I implore you… stop.” A visibly agitated Seneschal Beric caught up with her and narrowed his eyes in disgust.

“I must speak with the King. It is of an urgent matter.” She puffed out her chest to look more official, but realized that the effect was lost with the amount of mud now dripping on the floor.

Beric pursed his lips and shook his head. “Today the family requested they not be disturbed. He will not be holding court until the morrow.”

Nuraya wanted to reach out and grab him by his dangling jowls, but managed to restrain herself. She did not quite trust Beric, but surely the welfare of the Royals was his top priority. Once the news that a group of apostates had targeted the Prince became common knowledge, the less likely anyone at the palace would trust mages—even if the mage happened to be a national hero.

“I must speak with His Majesty. Now.” She reached for the door, but the Guard followed Beric’s lead and reaffirmed his stance in front of it. 

Beric cocked an eyebrow and continued to scrutinize her. “Regarding?”

Nuraya sighed in frustration. “I suggest you fetch the King. As Seneschal, it would be a great embarrassment to be the one standing in the way of His Majesty hearing important news regarding his son.” She still hated referring to Alistair with such formality, but in times such as these, it was a necessary evil.

Beric cleared his throat. “I only take orders from His Majesty.” With a pointed finger he indicated in the direction of the guest apartments. “Go make yourself presentable and I will send His Majesty to your quarters when he feels he is ready to attend to his  _guest_ .” He said ‘guest’ as one might refer to a cellar rat. She was curious why he held her in such disdain. It didn’t much matter. The feeling was mutual.

She knew there was no winning in this situation and groped her robes at her thighs, squeezing until her knuckles were white. They came away from her with a sloppy, wet squelch and sent another cold shiver into her bones.

As she acquiesced, she glared. “I do not jest about matters regarding the safety of the Prince.”

She marched in anger all the way back to her room. Thankfully, her maids were nowhere to be found and she was left to her own devices to strip out of her soiled, wet robes. A washing basin sat near her hearth, still untouched from the night before. She plunged her hands into the icy waters and hurriedly removed the layers of slime and muck. The urgency to clean outweighed any need for warmth. She could have heated the water with her own source of heat, but to do so would only prolong her state of filth. So scrub she did. Whether her robes and underclothes were salvageable was another question. She tossed them into a basket and could almost hear the cursing of the laundress.

With dripping hair and skin scrubbed pink and raw, under clean woolen robes, she poked at the embers in the hearth and tried to urge the flames to take hold of the newest log she had thrown in. Leaning into the hearth, she pulled her wet hair toward the heat so it would dry a little faster. After she lost patience with that task, she was about to start pacing when Beric finally rapped on her door and formally announced the King. Alistair dismissed him and posted two guards in the hallway. Even their presence did not reassure her.

Nuraya’s heart started to pound again, just as it did in the warrens beneath Denerim when the Order of the Dragon announced their intentions. Before Alistair opened his mouth, Nuraya leapt to her feet from her spot nearest the fire and in a surge of fear and panic, told him everything she had witnessed. His eyes shifted from curiosity into a deadened stare and his face blanched. She was not entirely comfortable being the harbinger of bad news and quite certain that he had not fully recovered from his recent visit with Fiona. Without a word, he opened the door and promptly sent one of the guards to increase Bran’s security detail. Once they were alone again, he pulled his hand through his hair.

“What do they want with Bran?” Worry weighed heavy on his brow. He leaned on the marble mantle and rubbed his beard.

“I haven’t a clue. The head of the Order kept referring to the Mother—ˮ

 “Mother… dragons… by the Maker, you don’t suppose they were referring to  _Morrigan_ ? Do you suppose they know? Know about that night in Redcliffe? Know how both you and I made it off of Drakon alive?”

“The thought did cross my mind. You’ve got to get Bran out of the city—today. Can this be done in secret? I will rouse Ruskin—”

Alistair interrupted her rapid planning. He spoke slowly as if from a dream. “You know I think of him. He’s a couple years older than Bran. From time to time I wonder what he is doing, if he is happy, if he plays like other boys his age. I wonder who he looks like?  Does he look like me? Would anyone recognize him?” This time he looked directly in Nuraya’s eyes. The butterflies in her stomach took flight.   

“He has crossed my mind over the years, as well.” She admitted and they stood there in silence, unsure what to say next. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to reassure him, but knew that would be inappropriate. The topic roused all sorts of moments from their past, moments that were best forgotten. It was Alistair who agreed to participate in Morrigan’s ritual. It was Alistair who had saved her. And he did so because he had loved her. Besides Morrigan, only the Queen knew the truth. Nuraya had seen to that. But even though the entire country wondered how they both survived, no one asked. Eventually, the Wardens broached the subject before they had sent her to Amaranthine. Since she was the first mage-warden to ever battle an Archdemon, she managed to concoct a wild story that Morrigan had taught her a blood-magic ritual that she performed on the roof, thus sending the essence of Urthemiel to the Void and miraculously saving the Wardens in the process. Part truth, but mostly lie. It seemed to her that the Wardens were just as anxious to put the truth behind them and did not pursue matters any further. In fact, she was quite certain they would have asked her to retire had she not suggested it in the first place. The last thing the Wardens needed, without the defense of a Blight, was to employ a suspected blood mage as their Commander. And given the recent events in Kirkwall, she was certain that the Wardens were relieved that they did not need to contend with that.

“I agreed to never interfere. I agreed to allow her to walk away and never follow, that the child would be hers to raise as she wished. And I did that! I have not hunted her son— _our son_ , why does she hunt mine?” He pounded the façade of the mantle with his fist.

Nuraya returned to her cushion near the fire and ran through, in her mind, what she had witnessed hoping to extract a clue.

“The Order was inducting a new member. They said that the Chantry had taken a brother. I wonder if that was the mage who attacked me? I am going to question him…”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He is the Chantry’s prisoner. They won’t let you within a league of him. I’ll send Eamon over to take care of it.”

That notion made her stomach flip-flop with nervousness. Based on everything she had learned from Kalvindir, she suspected that the mage in custody had travelled to Denerim with Connor. The last thing she wanted was the Lord Chamberlain to learn that she was helping to hide his apostate son. On the surface, the situation made her look very, very bad, which was exactly how the Chantry would want to see it.

She quickly came up with a plausible reason. “He attacked a Warden. And the Wardens still have a right to put their enemies to the question. I think I have every right to conduct an interrogation.”

Alistair thought upon the idea and eventually gave a weak nod. “Very well. Given the events in Kirkwall, the Chantry will take any rogue mage extremely seriously. I still doubt the Warden’s will be granted an audience, but I admire your initiative. I thought you didn’t like politics?” He opened her door and turned to leave. “I’m sending Bran to Highever immediately with Ruskin and his wife. Meet me at my office tonight and we can discuss this matter further. Once word gets to Eamon, he’ll insist on seeing the Grand Cleric himself. ”

Nuraya nodded, deciding to worry about that later and watched him leave, still feeling panicked and now, nostalgic.

~0oOo0~

The morning was still young and Warden headquarters was already a hive of activity when Nuraya arrived. She regretted not taking Tandyr, but again, all the fuss and bother of saddling him seemed a waste of time. Quietly catching her breath, she made her way through the front hall and back kitchen, hoping to avoid any undue attention. The main building was empty, even Tarben the cook was away from his post. As she caught her breath, she stood just at the perimeter of the training yard and watched the young initiates for a couple of moments, letting things settle before she decided to stir the pot. She never had the pleasure of holding command when there wasn’t a crisis to overcome and envied Rastignac’s role of establishing order and routine. There was wood to be chopped, meals to be prepared, barracks to be cleaned, weapons to be repaired as well as training to conduct. All that seemed far less stressful than running from one end of Denerim to the other hoping to keep the mages out of trouble.

As Nuraya scanned the yard, she watched Anora provide small arms training, still maintaining her poise and steely posture, just like she did as Cailan’s queen. A few feet away, and in a demeanour that could not have been more unlike the former Queen, Oghren demonstrated proper stance with a war hammer. He was having far too much fun this early in the morning bashing open a melon he had placed on the top of the straw man. His students looked on in horror as the guts dripped onto the ground and their instructor sniggered in delight.  Just as she was about to find her way to the Warden-Commander’s office, a hand grasped her shoulder. She almost launched off the ground in response.

“Nate.” She clutched her chest and laughed off the scare, reeling from embarrassment that she had been caught off-guard. In a split-second she realized just how good she had become at intentionally ignoring the Warden signal in her head.

Nathaniel Howe’s dark eyes twinkled mischievously. “Easy there. Come to join us for breakfast? Offer a little training? I am sure Oghren could use a break. Although it looks as if his students could use it more.” He pushed his leather gloves between his fingers as he spoke.

At the back of the yard the auburn-haired dwarf cursed his ancestors as he continued to bark commands at each of the initiates still nervously holding their stances. Nuraya studied the group a little more closely—all were fresh-faced, but their expressions revealed that they all had stories to tell, that they had lived a little harder, that they were not freshly plucked from a Circle or an Arling. “Have they taken their Joining yet?” she wondered aloud.

“Just back from Orzammar. Six out of six. Not bad eh?”

She nodded slowly. “Then they all know. They know our secret… our fate…” her voice trailed off. 

Nathaniel slapped her on the shoulder, flaring the ache that only stared to abate. “Come, come. Tonight they’ll celebrate. No need to be so glum today. Why don’t you come round this evening and offer them some inspiration? A toast perhaps?”

“I’m afraid I’m fresh out of inspiration for one lifetime. Say, where is the Commander?” She quickly changed the subject so as to dodge the topic of her sullen mood.

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. Nothing escaped him, of course. “The Commander is in his office, where he always hides out these days. And since when did we switch temperaments? Shouldn’t I be the broody one and you the eternal optimist?”

She flashed him a smile; the first of her day. “Something like that.”  As she headed toward the Commander’s quarters she turned back to her former companion. “Are you busy today? If not, I could sure use a hand.”

Nathaniel grinned and sauntered in her footsteps. He wore his Warden leathers well and was lean and fit; it was good to see a lightness in him that had been absent during their time in Amaranthine. The Denerim Wardens must have agreed with him. “I can guarantee that whatever you are involved with is infinitely more interesting than babysitting the fresh meat.”

They returned through the kitchens together. Tarben was stirring a bubbling pot of oats over the fire and greeted both Wardens warmly, inviting them with great enthusiasm to sit and eat. Nathaniel tossed Nuraya an apple and took one for himself, asking the cook to save him a serving.

They headed down the hall toward the Commander’s office. Nathaniel crunched his apple and wiped the excess juice away with the back of his hand. “So what’s this about anyway?”

Nuraya’s appetite had not yet surfaced and played with the shiny apple in her hand, wondering when the knots in her stomach might loosen. She shrugged at his question. “You know me… trouble always seems to find me.”

He rapped on the doorway, but opened the door before a response could be uttered, sticking his head inside. “Amell is here.”

Commander Rastignac was hunched over a large pile of paperwork at his desk. Nuraya did not miss the administrative duties associated with that rank, although she was surprised that he had not appointed a secretary to help with routine matters. Surely there was someone of skill able to attend to the basic accounting and matters of running the training? Rastignac looked like he might have been there all night. Dark circles were etched under his wide, brown eyes. The candles on his desk had long burnt out, but the early morning light was already streaming through the window, giving him plenty for reading. She took a seat beside Nathaniel, set the apple on the desk and then picked up a small soapstone mabari figurine that seemed a bit out of place on his cluttered desk.

“As good as it is to see you again, I hasten to add that I am quite certain that you come bearing troubling news.” He turned to his cold hearth. “I’d offer you some tea, but as you can see… I was not expecting guests for breakfast.”

“I’ll take care of that, Commander.” Nathaniel quietly snuck off, leaving them alone.

"I apologize for being such a nuisance.” Nuraya began, kneading the carving in her palm, not sure whether she really meant what she had said or was merely trying to candy-coat her request. He chuckled in response and twisted the corner of his moustache with his fingers. His expressions were never easy to read, but he appeared to be listening, so she launched into her request. “I am in need of a favor, as I have found myself in the middle of a situation that may or may not directly involve the Wardens.” She wondered how many favours she could call upon before her Hero status lost its currency.

The Commander furrowed his thick brow and leaned on the desk. “Your statement is so vague that it scares me.”

Nuraya bit her lip, knowing that it would be a tricky conversation. Keeping Morrigan’s connection to her and Alistair a secret would be a challenge. “Have you heard of the Mage’s Collective?”

Closing his eyes and rubbing his temples, it was clear that the last thing the Commander wanted to hear about was the mages. “Vaguely.”

She crossed wove her fingers under her knee, trying to appear as if having a close association with a group of apostates was really no big of a deal.  “The Collective helped me out a great deal during the Blight. I still maintain my contacts, of course. As a favor, I agreed to go under the city in search of some rare ingredients.” The small detail of accompanying Connor was conveniently omitted as well. “While I was there, I stumbled upon a ritual… a group of blood mages initiating a new member. Part of her induction to the group involved kidnapping the Prince.”

Nathaniel returned with a tray of tea. Rastignac cleared a spot on his desk and then helped himself, blowing the swirling steam off the top. The prolonged silence did nothing to calm her nerves. She shifted in her seat, wondering if she should proffer more detail but opted instead to nurse her mug and look as if she had the whole situation under control.

Nathaniel took a seat and crossed his arms. “I missed how the Wardens are involved with the affairs of the royal family.”

“As did I,” said Rastignac.

“I have reason to believe that the mage who attacked me was a member of this group, who call themselves the Order of the Dragon. I want to question him.”

The Commander set down his mug and leaned into his desk, weaving his fingers together. “I assume you have already informed his Majesty?”

Nuraya nodded.

“Then it is in his hands.”

“But one of their mages attacked  _me_ . I want to find out why a warden and the Prince of Ferelden are connected to this obscure group of radical mages.  At least allow me to rule out any suspicion that there is a group of mages with a vendetta against our Order.” She was running out of solid reasons and feared the opportunity was slipping through her fingers.

 “I suppose now is the best time to remind you that the Chantry has grown even more intolerant of apostates since Kirkwall. It is getting to the point where we might not be able to protect you any longer. This connection to your attacker is tenuous at best. Whatever situation that has embroiled the mages, is none of the Warden’s concern.”

Reflexively, she scowled but Rastignac raised a hand to stay her response. “You’re very important to the Order. However, the situation in Denerim cannot be ignored and our position to remain outside of politics must be upheld. Need I remind you that Anders was also a Warden and a mage? I’ll go make a case with the Revered Mother, but I’ll be sending in Howe. I hope you understand.”

Even though it was not the answer she wanted, she nodded and continued to fidget with the soapstone carving in her hand. It reminded her of the figurines that she’d find and give to Alistair. It seemed as if everything was starting to remind her of him and she didn’t like that at all, even more so than not being able to question this mage herself. She returned the stone mabari to the Commander’s desk and turned it so it was facing him. He grinned and nodded, and from that she gathered that his reluctance in assisting her was not a personal one. She guessed he might have been dealing with more pressures from then Chantry—an issue she dared not broach for the time being. With the tip of a finger, she pushed the carving away from the edge.

The Commander stood and smoothed out his tunic, placing his hands behind his back. “Come Warden Howe, let us pay a visit to Her Grace and pray that we are not disturbing her day.”

“Nathaniel, will you meet me at the Palace when you are done?” Nuraya asked as she prepared to leave.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Of course. Now stay out of trouble in the meantime.”

She could not think of a better way to spend the rest of her day.

 ~0oOo0~

Sitting cross-legged at the edge of the pier, she watched the calm sea and grey horizon, wondering what lay beyond an ocean she had never crossed. Was there a place on those distant shores that accepted mages, not as a curse or a weapon, but as a people with unique talents? She looked down and saw the watery reflection of a hooded woman, with dark eyes and a long, dark braid, and years of worry etched on her face. She manoeuvered to her belly and continued to search the ocean’s depths, looking for answers that had drowned long ago, that had sunk to the bottom and become tangled in kelp. Slowly, she reached down so the tip of her finger barely traced the glossy surface. She invoked a minor freezing spell and watched thin feathers of frost swirl outward, creating a curling lace pattern and then quickly melted back into the grey water. Now that she had stopped running, she allowed her mind to settle like the water and felt alone.

Instead of trying to escape the pain of her realization, she stayed with it, let it surface and float in her thoughts for a while. Was this to be her fate, to face this impossible challenge—to look at this moment in history square in the eyes and demand change—all by herself? Could she do this all on her own? The murky water beneath the weathered pilings offered no answer. Gulls cried in the distance and the soft gurgle of lapping water helped calm her rising doubt. Why was it that a situation that mattered the most to her would be one she would face completely and totally alone? What mage would stand with her? Perhaps the better question, what mage could?

She let her hand slip into the water again, splaying her fingers and feeling the water flow between them. This time she cast a fire spell. Bubbles drifted to the top and steam started to rise, an effect that never ceased to intrigue her.

Feeling slightly light-headed from laying prone, she sat up and stretched a little, curling her legs close to her chest and resting her chin on her knees. Her feelings toward Alistair that had recently stirred was another source of worry, perhaps not as monumental as her need to change the treatment of mages in Ferelden, but a niggling concern all the same. Just being around him lately seemed to rouse some long lost emotion that she swore had been snuffed out years ago. In fact, if there was one thing she believed she had under complete control, it was her feelings for him. She did not want her stomach to flutter when he looked at her, nor did she wish to wake from dreams that had made her feel all too good, leaving her wishing to drift back asleep. She pressed her hands onto her forehead and groaned.  _This has to stop_ , she asserted,  _he’s married. I am a mage_ . There was no regret over the path she had chosen—but it was obvious that her heart had other plans and did not care about practicalities.

A light mist started to fall and a heavier rain threatened to follow, leading her to conclude that it was time to leave—time to take shelter from the weather, but also time to leave Denerim. Once she had met with Nate and Alistair, she decided to make arrangements to move on. But her destination was as clear as the day was shaping up to be. Returning home was not an option and seemed more like escaping rather than moving forward. Where were the Orlesians that Fiona had asked her to meet and what about this key she had mentioned? The thought of travelling to the Université d’Orlais to find this professor crossed her mind and bore some promise. But before she went further with that idea, she thought it best to wait and hear what Nathaniel had to report. Perhaps his interrogation would reveal a new lead, a new direction to take.

Before she left, she stood at the edge of the pier and took another long look over the cold, grey water and decided to hide for the rest of her day in her room in front of a roaring fire, with a good book. Her timing could not have been better. The mist turned to drops and fell in earnest now. She pulled her arms up into her sleeves and made her way back to the Palace.

Just as she turned on to the great avenue leading to the Palace’s main gates, the King’s guard stopped her. She was drenched again, and rain was beginning to run freely in the gutters.  Her security detail, Ser Desmond, stood at the rear, the patter of rain now echoing off his armor. _Great. The last thing I need right now is a bloody honour guard._ She flashed a weak smile.

“Well met.” She was about to dismiss them when the Captain reached for her arm. She pulled back, startled at his behaviour.

“Nuraya Amell,” he said formally.

There was no doubt that bewilderment painted her expression. “Yes…”

“By Order of King Alistair of Ferelden, you are hereby placed under arrest.” This time, his armored glove firmly gripped the top of her arm and tightened when she tried to pull away.

“Under what charges?” She cried out, as he wrangled both her hands behind her back.

“Conspiracy to kidnap his Highness the Prince.” 

As she was pushed forward, she caught Ser Desmond’s eye. There was no warmth or offer to help. Just a cold stare in return that seemed to say _How dare you_.    

 


	32. Saunière

As Saunière crossed the gangplank to the port of Jader, the wind and rain threatened to carry his hat across the Waking Sea. He caught it just in time, deciding that it would be safer kept under his arm until he was well clear of boats, docks and ocean breezes. This morning he strutted back into Orlais, bearing no shame, clutching his research close to his chest, tucking it beneath his coat the shelter the delicate parchment and inks from the blustery rain. Once he had stepped foot onto Jader proper, he stood upon the wharf and waited for Tassilo and Hawke to disembark.

“Lovely day for sailing,” he said to his assistant and Hawke with a grin. Their shoulders nearly touched their ears, bracing against the foul weather that had just blown ashore. Tassilo furrowed his brow. “Are you going to tell me your secret?”

With a spring in his step, Saunière turned and headed for the nearest awning. “What secret? We no longer keep secrets, isn’t that right, Hawke?”

The man once known as the Champion of Kirkwall used his long fingers to pull the rain from his slick hair. “My guess is that  _le Professeur_ has developed a sudden appreciation for ocean travel.” He scratched his mabari behind his ears and firmly patted his haunch.

“But Professeur, I’ve been your travelling companion for years—you’ve always succumbed to sea sickness…” Tassilo ducked beneath the shelter and rubbed his hands together, blowing on them to generate more heat.

Saunière closed his eyes, as the ground still seemed to rock under his feet and he convinced himself that the dreaded waves of nausea would not return. Just as they had sailed from the port at Cumberland, Hawke had come to his rescue and had tightly tied straps of leather to each wrist. Saunière had grumbled at the intervention, doubting the story that a pirate lady-friend of Hawke’s had taught him the trick. Whether it was all in his mind, a furtive act of magic or if the straps had actual therapeutic power—it did not really matter. Saunière’s nausea was kept at bay throughout the entire journey, allowing him to sink his nose deep into his research inside the cramped little berth the three men had shared with a group of Antivan traders. Throughout the three-day journey, Saunière only half-paid attention to Hawke’s success in winning a nice sum of money in Bix and Wicked Grace. Tassilo seemed concerned that the Antivans would eventually tire of losing, or worse, accuse Hawke of cheating, but by the time  _La Divine Blanche_ had moored in Jader, the traders were slapping Hawke on the shoulder and sharing off-colour jokes. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tassilo.” Saunière said gruffly, as he winked at Hawke. “Let’s not dwell upon the past and focus instead on the road ahead. At my last reckoning, it will be nearly twenty days by foot from here to Denerim. Let’s go find some poor trader in need of an escort, shall we? Let's keep a keen eye out for those with horses.”

“Denerim?” Tassilo and Hawke asked in unison. The coincidence started both men equally causing them look to each other in disbelief.

“Yes,” said the professor slowly, not understanding their confusion. “The Hero? Brother Genitivi?”

“But Professeur,” Tassilo said, his voice was shrill and tinged with irritation. “The mage Wynne said that the Hero has not been in Denerim for many years. She lives in a small hamlet outside of Gwaren. I thought we agreed that we would first make for Dungarven, collect the Hero, and then travel to Denerim together. What you suggest is at least a month of travel. This plan cuts at least a fortnight.”

Saunière vaguely recalled having had this discussion already, but of course, he had been pretending to listen when in fact he was concentrating on the manuscripts that they had procured. So much theology and ancient history—so little time. However, beneath the rocking oil lanterns that hung from the ship’s rafters, the strange symbols that randomly appeared above different letters nagged at him incessantly, to the point where he had blocked out most of the ambient conversation. For hours he would sway in his hammock and study their veiled meaning, getting nowhere and letting the casual chatter fade into the wooden walls of their cabin. He impressed himself that despite his obsession with the problem, he was able to feign his undivided attention with Tassilo.

The professor had made up his mind and was unmoved. “To Denerim I shall journey, with or without you. Even with the Hero, we still need to figure out our next move. I have a feeling that it’s all in here.” Saunière patted the leather dossier under his arm. “Brother Genitivi has some expertise that might crack this mystery wide open. We still need to locate this key. There isn’t even a point involving the Hero unless we know what our next step will be.”

“But how do we know that the Hero does not have this information? Why else would Fiona send us to her? Travelling to first Denerim will only set us behind. It has taken us an inordinate amount of time to get here in the first place. Why delay this meeting unnecessarily,  _Professeur_ ?” Tassilo implored. Rainwater dribbled from the peak of his tricorn hat which seemed to encourage his frustration. Thunder rolled in the distance, a warning that the rain would not relent any time soon.

“I suppose you put him up to this ridiculous idea.” Saunière said to Hawke, realizing that they had arrived at an impasse.

Hawke looked uncomfortable, and rubbed his chin as he mulled over a thought. Before he could express what he was considering, Tassilo clenched both fists and cried in frustrated despair.

“I am more than capable of making up my own mind! I am going to Dungarven whether you come or not!” He spun on a foot and prepared to leave but a crack of thunder stopped him in his tracks.

Saunière bit his lip and leaned against the building, away from a steady trickle of water that was now falling from the roof. Now he felt an annoying twinge of guilt for inciting Tassilo's outburst.  His assistant was unwavering in his dedication to the professor and Saunière never once considered him as an underling, but more as a peer relegated to the unfortunate circumstances of history and politics. The professor looked to the sky just as lightening flickered across the black clouds.

"Well, Tassilo my friend. Let's just kill two wyverns with one arrow."

~0oOo0~

It was still raining when he arrived in Denerim a fortnight later. Without Hawke's incessant chiding, he felt bold enough to stride into Jader's Chantry to prevail upon the Revered Mother to help him arrange passage to Denerim. He intoned in High Orlesian that it was imperative that he undertake vital research for the Université. Jader was often confused as a Fereldan outpost; the inhabitants were either foreign, of mixed descent, or topsider outcasts from Orzammar.  And according to tradition, the clergy came straight from Val Royeaux in hopes of preserving Orlesian culture on the eastern shore of the Waking Sea. From Saunière’s assessment, this plan had failed miserably, but he was not above using his heritage to pull some strings. As soon as his baritone voice bounced off the high vaulted ceilings, the Revered Mother nearly tripped over her brocaded robes to impress the professor.

When she assumed that it was common for professors to have high tea with the Divine, he did not bother to correct her. It had been at least ten years since he had been in the Divine's presence, not counting the times that she attended the odd service at the university's chapel. She was always surrounded by a retinue of attendants and he thought of her as nothing more than a figurehead. The real seat of power lay within the Council of Heralds, although this was an opinion he oft kept to himself, which helped assure his yearly grant funding. It had been so long since his name and rank had held any sway that he felt a small chill of excitement and from the Revered Mother's animated chatter, he gathered that it had been a period of equal measure since an auspicious Orlesian had visited this particular backwater Chantry.

Ten days on the road with a unit of templars being transferred to the Denerim Chantry, was an exercise in both patience and silent judgement. Most were fresh from their training and had not even spent enough time in the Order to develop their life-long addiction to lyrium. In Saunière’s experience, the lyrium had a sedative effect, especially when taken outside of the presence of mages. But on this journey, the professor was not so lucky as he was forced to bear witness to the rowdy templar's off-duty antics. A captain should have been sent to supervise, but one could not be spared. He hoped that it was not the Revered Mother's intention that he act as chaperone. It was a wonder they did not end up in a Tevinter brothel. Saunière spent most of his time with the driver and avoided the templar's need for dirty stories and Orlesian wine. Most, he assumed, were from poor families who wished better lives for their sons. Or maybe there was the odd father who thought a life in the Order would break his book-smart lad and make him into a man. Upon closer inspection, these boys seemed far too happy to have a father like his.

Upon rolling into Denerim early on a rainy morning, Saunière remarked to the driver that the city had changed dramatically since he had last visited. Scars from the Blight had barely healed: the paint was fresh, façades were haphazardly repaired and ruts in the road told stories of archdemons and the darkspawn hoard. The driver grimaced and suggested that it looked much worse before the reconstruction. Saunière thought the city planners ought to try harder. He asked to be dropped off at the market, and tipped his hat at the driver, thankful to be rid of the hung over templars. 

"Come on then," said the Professor, quickening his step as he crossed the marketplace. "Better stay close, don't want to lose you in this crowd." It was midday and the marketplace was brimming with people--the rain would not keep a Fereldan from their shopping, a trait that had survived the trauma of the Blight. Saunière looked down, expecting to hear an answer, but Shasta merely looked up with soulful eyes and wiggled his stumpy tail.

Before his company had parted ways, Hawke had insisted that he take his mabari. Saunière thought it was a ludicrous idea. The last thing he wanted was to babysit a drooling mutt, but Hawke offered assurances that he was as good as any sword and was an even better travelling companion. Despite his reservations, the dog proved himself to be quite useful over the course of their journey. He would growl viciously when anyone approached the professor as he slept, and would bare his fangs in a most menacing manner if a hand came anywhere near his leather dossier. By the time they arrived in Denerim, Saunière was on a first name basis with the mabari and took to scratching him behind the ear when Shasta assumed his watchful post.

Together they wove through the crowd, ducking the baskets carried overhead and detoured around deep puddles until they had arrived at Brother Genitivi's apartment on the corner.

A knot had formed in his stomach as he rapped on the thick wooden door. He knew his old friend quite enjoyed travelling and hoped that he would be home. He had not yet formulated a plan in the event that the lay brother was on extended leave. Shasta whined a little, no doubt as put off by the cold spring rains as he. Just as he began to despair, the hinges creaked and a friendly, familiar face popped around the door.

"By the Divine! Bérenger! You are the last person I expected to find behind my door. Come! Come in and dry yourself!"

Welcomes were always warm and full of food at Genitivi's. The two men spent the better part of the afternoon in front of the fire catching up, spinning elaborate tales of the research, writing, and important individuals they had crossed paths with since they had last spoken. Between bites of fresh bread and cheese, Saunière found himself withholding the details of his most recent adventures, even though they would have clearly topped a lifetime of Genitivi's work. Was it because he did not trust this Chantry brother? No, he could trust him with his life; there was little doubt in that. His meeting with Fiona, his newly forged partnership with the Champion, coupled with the revelations found within the  _Search for the True Prophet_ and  _The Tevinter Grimoire_ , would no doubt give Genitivi a first row audience with the Seekers.

Genitivi topped his glass with one of the finest Antivan ports in Thedas, and after returning the decanter to the table he reclined and smiled wryly. "So, how much of this port will it take to loosen you up old friend?" He swirled the glass and took a measured sip.

The crackling fire and the soft sound of rain upon the window helped smooth over the ragged edges of his nerves, however, it was not quite enough to encourage him to launch into a detailed synopsis. Saunière scratched his forehead, feeling the worry lines thicken. "Tell me what you know about the Hero."

"Of Ferelden?" Genitivi's expression suggested that this question seemed out of the blue.

Saunière squirmed a little in his seat, crossed his legs and then switched to the leg he preferred to rest on top. That knee seemed to ache a little less. His stalling statics were becoming apparent according to way Genitivi was watching him, so Saunière revealed what little he dared. Even as he spoke he expected a deluge of questions.

“She figures into the some of the research I’ve been working on, and is the reason I’ve come to Denerim.” Saunière said sheepishly, regretting how much he had said.

"Indeed,” said Genitivi with a nod and a smile.

Why did he smile? Did he know? What did he know? Saunière hated playing games with his peers, especially those whose intellectual capabilities matched his own.

Genitivi continued on, apparently enjoying the game.  “Well, you know the highlights. Circle mage, recruited by the Wardens, sought out strategic allies to help conquer the Archdemon… fought on Fort Drakon’s roof for some time, before her companion, Alistair, showed up and stole the glory.” He cleared his throat and became quieter, more reflective. “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting her, She’s an exceptional mage and a fine swords-woman. According to some, she is the illegitimate daughter of Loghain Mac Tir and was adopted by a smith in Dungarven. I have yet to journey to Gwaren and Dungarven to corroborate those rumours. She is principled, that is clear. Her views sit somewhere between Aequitarian and Libertarian, although I am rather certain that she does not formally align with either Fraternity. She and Alistair Theirin had become lovers during their campaign and both survived after the Archdemon was slain."

"But according to Warden lore, death is the ultimate sacrifice."

Genitivi hummed in agreement. "Interesting indeed. There is only wild speculation, gossip... I suppose only the Grey Wardens can fully explain that detail. It was obvious that she manoeuvred Theirin to the throne... To what end, I still find myself asking.  At first I thought she was trying to align the mages with the Fereldan throne through their marriage, as a ploy to assure the mage's independence from the Chantry. But after the Blight, she led another campaign in Amaranthine and then fell into relative obscurity, becoming a country healer of sorts. Then all that changed about a month ago."

There was a tone of trepidation in Genitivi's voice and Saunière almost expected the news that Chantry extremists had arrested, or worse, killed her.  

"What do you mean?"

"She came to Denerim as a guest of his Majesty. I've been doing a bit of poking around, the exact nature of her visit is not clear, although I suspect she was invited to attend a council meeting that discussed the attack on the Kirkwall Chantry. I've been trying to make an appointment with her, to fill in some holes in my Blight research, but she has yet to respond. I suspect that that duffer Beric is responsible for that. Never did like him."

Saunière felt a slight degree of satisfaction knowing that he had been right all along, yet despaired that Tassilo and Hawke were travelling so far for naught. His mind raced, trying to think of a way to send them a message, but realized it was futile. The feeling of being indefinitely separated from his company soured his stomach and his mood. Whether or not he was willing to admit that he had formed a strange attachment to the Champion, he could not deny the urgency to reconnect with he and Tassilo immediately. All this, he kept to himself and returned his thoughts to the topic at hand and poked around to see how much was commonly known about Nuraya Amell. "And how could the Hero of Ferelden be in any way connected to Kirkwall?"

"Why, everyone knows that her close personal ally and friend was the one responsible,” Genitivi replied, brushing his hand as if this were just common washer-woman gossip.  

Saunière mulled over this bit of information for a second. Surely the Chantry had already started breathing down the Hero’s neck with so close an association with Kirkwall. This would complicate their meeting, he imagined. Anyone from Orlais would be suspected as having a close alignment with either the Seekers or the Templars, which would make any mage wary. He put this bit of information aside, deciding to think on it more thoroughly later.

Genitivi spoke up, his tone was bright and teasing. "So tell me old friend, why would Professor Saunière of the Université d'Orlais, esteemed scholar of Andrastian theology be interested in the whereabouts of the Hero of Ferelden?"

Saunière swallowed the rest of his port in a single mouthful. "I have some research that I need to share with you. He fumbled through his pack and pulled out the leather dossier. Shasta was basking in the heat of the fireplace and followed Saunière’s movements with his eyes. Saunière signalled with a smile, hoping it was enough to convince the war hound that the situation was under control.

"I've been on a research assignment these past few weeks and have come across some ancient texts. I am at an impasse in trying to understand these strange runes that seem to appear randomly in both sets. Until recently, no one thought that these texts had any historical connection. Some of my initial work suggests that the Hero might somehow be connected, but exactly how still eludes me. First, there seems to be a code embedded in the text that has positively stumped me." He opened both sets of documents on the table and brought the candelabra close. "Perhaps you should refrain from asking too many questions... for your own safety, you see."

Genitivi scanned both documents closely, using a finger to ever so lightly trace the areas in question. His expression became increasingly anxious as he continued to study. With his hands behind his back, he looked up, firelight gleamed in his eyes. "I see that you have picked up where Duchamp left off."

The announcement was stunning. How long had he had been in the dark with regard to his beloved mentor's extracurricular work? And how long had Genitivi been involved?

Genitivi chuckled. "Perhaps you, my friend, should refrain from asking too many questions... for your own safety of course." He winked at Saunière. “But Duchamp made no mention of the Hero, so you’ve definitely made some progress.”

Immediately Saunière grabbed a pencil and his notebook and resumed taking notes as Genitivi spoke. It was dawn before they decided to set aside their work and rest their strained eyes and aching backs.

The guest room offered the professor a feather bed and a fireplace. He nestled deep under the blankets and let his whirling thoughts and discoveries settle in his exhausted mind. Together, he and Genitivi painstakingly copied every strange rune from the texts onto a separate sheet of parchment. After much discussion on their possible origin which bore no leads, Genitivi suggested that the runes were merely signposts. Before long, they were connecting runes to letters and both scholars had come to realize that the texts had revealed a cypher. Who and why it had been created still remained a mystery, although based on the colour of the ink, it was certain that it had been scribed many centuries past.

After a few hours, a pattern emerged and the fog that had obscured Saunière from the meaning had finally lifted. The secret code revealed map coordinates. It was in an ancient Rivaini cartography system which measured Thedas in a standard grid pattern. Numbers and runes were assigned to each point where the grid intersected. Luckily, Genitivi was familiar with the work of Guiseppo Renzi, Rivain's acclaimed ancient explorer and map maker. He had a copy of his earliest works and from there, the scholars revealed six locations: Tylus Canyon, Val Royeaux, Minrathous, a point in the southern reaches of the Arlathan forest just west of Antiva, a location east of Highever in Ferelden, and Alam on the Island of Seheron. After this discovery, both men decided to call it a night, sleep off their exhaustion and continue with their work later.

Several competing theories flooded Saunière’s mind, but he found it more and more difficult to cling to his thoughts. He heard Shasta groan contentedly in front of the fire and the patter of rain made his thinking less sharp. Despite all attempts at clinging to his thoughts he was eventually pulled into the dark embrace of sleep.

~0oOo0~

 The following evening, Professor Saunière wandered across the street to the Gnawed Noble Tavern. He had spent far too much time hunched over faded parchment and found himself in need of a pipe and a stiff drink. Genitivi declined the invitation, saying that he much preferred the quiet of his own residence. They had spent the day trying to make sense of the map coordinates. The Tylus Canyon region was the easiest; it represented the tomb and the secret doorway which had started Saunière’s quest. The areas in Ferelden and Tevinter, the scholars guessed, represented the place of Andraste's birth and death, respectively. Val Royeaux was trickier, as it had been established as the heart of the Andrastian Chantry many centuries after the texts had been written. Saunière wondered if the _Search for the True Prophet_ might have been written and subsequently smuggled out of there, which would require further research. The final two locations: the Arlathan forest and Seheron posed the deepest mystery. Genitivi and Saunière had no plausible conjectures regarding the significance of those sites. Neither had any connection to the conventional Andraste mythos, nor to the tales woven in _Search for the True Prophet_ and the _Tevinter Grimoire_. He was certain that ale and a pinch of tobacco would help.

The Denerim streets were slick and glossy from the recent rains. The air was clear and cool and stars had started to glimmer from behind a thick curtain of clouds. Lanterns flickered and reflected in the puddles that had settled on the cobblestone road. It was almost a shame that the tavern was so close to where he was staying, as it would have been the perfect evening for a stroll, an idea Saunière might follow up on after his appointment inside. Golden light glowed through the latticed windows and merry music beckoned him in. As he opened the front door, he looked to Shasta, who seemed to smile back at him.

"I guess you'll have to wait out here for me, boy," he said reluctantly. "Don't wander too far, I won't stay long." He recalled Hawke making similar statements and hoped that they had the same effect. Having to explain the sudden disappearance of a beloved war-hound was not a conversation the professor wanted to have with the Champion of Kirkwall upon their next meeting.

A portly doorman in velvet invited him in. "A mabari is always welcome, sir! Welcome to Denerim's finest establishment." Saunière respectfully removed his hat and bowed in gratitude.

He found a place at the bar and ordered a dark and creamy stout that he found most pleasing. True, the Orlesians had the wine market cornered and the Antivans were famous for their brandy, but the Fereldans were the best brewers by far. It was curious as to why they kept this a secret. The only thing that foreigners seemed to know about Ferelden was that it smelled of wet dog, which in Saunière’s estimation, was not at all true, for the most part. 

He struck his match on the side of the bar and created a shelter for the bobbing flame with his hand, igniting the aromatic tobacco. Sucking on the mouthpiece a requisite three times (no more and no less), he exhaled and encouraged a warm tendril of smoke to curl about him. He watched the band play what he assumed was a popular jig that the locals were quick to join. Soon the clipping and clacking of feet on the wooden floor kept in time with a beating tabor and a fiddle player swaying and strumming his bow at a frenetic pace filled the tavern. Saunière could not help but tap his toe against the bar stool. Of course it was considered far too common to play such types of music at the University—chants and hymns being the standard fare. On occasion he and Tassilo would journey to the rougher areas of Val Royeaux to find similar atmospheres. His father found the traditional Orlesian reels to be far too provincial for his tastes, which made the professor love them all the more.

This particular song reminded him of one his mother used to hum softly as she sat in her parlour pulling fine silken threads on one of her many elaborate needlework projects. Her hair was always elaborately coiffed, piled high with sparkling jewels and strings of pearls.

"Bérenger, come sit with me," she would call out breathlessly between refrains.

Tentatively, he would step into her sanctuary, his finely buckled shoes reflecting in the high polished floors. His mother would nod toward the seat she preferred that he use.

"Come tell me a story," she would ask.

"And which one would you have me tell?" the young lad would reply, stealing a glance about the room, to a portrait in gilded frame of a general in ceremonial dress, plunging the killing strike into a wyvern's neck. He always wanted to ask more about that one, but had to content himself at creating the story himself. Always in his imagination, the general was his real father, who was killed by the wyvern’s mate just moments after the scene in the painting.

Sometimes his mother would consider the request silently, as she pulled her threads. Without looking up, she would say, "tell me about Ser Aveline of Orlais."

His mother always asked for this tale, one that his father especially reviled. "No respectable woman would participate in a tourney," he'd say, "it's unfortunate that the forest filth took her in. She should have been the wolf's next meal as her father intended."

The young Bérenger Saunière would begin the story the same way. "A tender cry echoed through the trees. Birds passed along her plea to the wandering Dalish..."

Afterwards, his mother would sigh, "You have such a gift with words. Now quickly to sword practice before your father returns."

A sharp whine from Shasta interrupted his reverie. The dog perked his ears and wagged his tail.

"What is it, boy? Smell the roasting meat? I'll see if I can get you a bone."

Shasta paused briefly, but continued to wiggle. He could hardly contain himself, using all of his canine will to remain seated at Saunière’s feet. The dog's gaze was directed to a pair of men seated across from them.

"They giving you a hard time?" Saunière was not sure what to do. Perhaps Shasta had been cooped up indoors too long and was in need of a walk. He quickly finished the beer that he had been relishing and stood, setting his hat atop his head.

The dog whined more intensely this time and dashed for the seated men, placed both front paws squarely on the lap of the younger of the two and proceeded to lap his tongue up the side of his face.

Saunière was horrified, never having witnessed such behaviour from the dog before. For a split second he feared that this was some strange form of mabari aggression, but the ears and tail suggested quite the opposite. The professor dashed to the table and grabbed Shasta firmly by the collar and pulled him off the man.

"Heel!" was the first command from his mouth, followed by a cascade of apologies.

Both men were stunned. The young man scratched his head and waved off the event. Shasta lowered to his front paws, while his tail continued to wave vigorously. He leapt up as if he was dancing to the music and let out a playful bark, escaping from Saunière’s grip and returning to lick the man's hand.

"I sincerely do not know what has gotten into him this evening," Saunière went to grab him again, thankful that the whole incident did not involve the spilling of beer or the smashing of crockery.

"No worries, Ser," the young man smiled, seemingly unfazed by the event. He cocked his head and studied the dog. His brow furrowed and he leaned in closer.

"Shasta?" asked the man. The mabari barked in affirmation.

The question stunned Saunière more than the dog's impropriety. Before he could form a thought or a word, the young man looked to him with a grave expression. "Where is my brother?"

 


	33. Nuraya

The nightmare had swallowed her whole. A gaping maw, endlessly dark and deathly quiet, forced her deeper and deeper into its vast, bottomless abyss. Nuraya struggled to open her eyes and swim to the surface of wakefulness, but no matter how much effort she exerted, her body moved languidly through the inky syrup. She groped around, blindly reaching for some familiar object on her nightstand but her hand knocked a cold, stone wall instead. She ignited the tip of her finger for a bit of light, still disoriented and groggy from the nightmare now slipping from recollection, and held up her hand. A flickering flame bobbed on the tip of her finger—she did not recognize where she was. Only grey stone, a pile of straw and a wooden bench with a thin mattress. An empty tray sat in the corner, vaguely reminding her of an unsatisfying meal. 

A sudden bang—metal on metal—brought her heart to her throat.

"That's enough out of you, mage. Put that out before I bring in the templars!"

She was thirteen years old again and back at Kinloch Hold until she realized that she was not trying to awake from a nightmare—she was already in one, somewhere in a cell inside Fort Drakon. Her reality quickly constructed itself around her and all the pieces fit back into place: Alistair had signed her arrest warrant.

When the cell door had first slammed shut, she was comforted in the thought that this was just a huge misunderstanding, a joke even. She paced and paced and waited. No one came. Not a soul.  And then night fell. In the morning, she waited again, convinced that one of the guards would sheepishly unlock the cell and admit to the mistake, but no one came and night fell once again.

Now that she was awake, her mind played over the situation, trying to parse through how she had become the prime suspect. As soon as she thought of the King, she clenched her fist and grabbed a handful of thin blanket, trying to control her simmering rage. This level of betrayal was new to her. Loghain’s actions toward the Grey Wardens paled in comparison to this. This was more akin to a punch in the stomach followed by a kick in the face, only to have the betrayer, in this case Alistair, rip her heart right though her chest and stomp on at as she lie bleeding on the floor. She grumbled to herself and rolled onto her side. The straw in the mattress pricked her skin and made her itch; she tried not to think of fleas and bedbugs, but she scratched her legs anyway.

When she had grown tired of obsessing over the matter, she came to the conclusion that Alistair had most likely been manipulated politically and was too weak to stand up to the opposing force. She took a wild guess and assumed the Chantry was behind everything, perhaps even behind the plot to kidnap the Prince. She twirled the tip of her braid around her finger and flopped to her back. A light flashed in the window shaft above her. She counted until she heard the first tell-tale rumbles a few seconds later. Then, she listened to the patter of the coming storm. It was almost soothing.

Restlessly, she sat up, leaning against the cold, damp stone wall and watched the lightning flash. It was her only point of reference and helped keep her from getting lost in the dark. Where were all her allies? The Wardens, she suspected, had no influence with the Crown. The ruling families of the Landsmeet would want to ensure that Alistair served them, and not the Grey Wardens. And likewise, the Wardens, as always, sidestepped political entanglements whenever possible. These ancient boundaries would be maintained, even though the Wardens were, in principle, members of the Landsmeet now that they held the Arling of Amaranthine. Kidnapping the Prince would be a tough charge for Rastignac to negotiate and she suspected that they had adopted a watch and wait attitude. Kalvindir and the Mage's Collective would have been powerless to help as well, even despite their strong desire to step in. With the Chantry seething with suspicion and paranoia on all matters regarding apostates, any mage would remain in hiding. She didn't blame them. With this new weapon the Chantry now possessed, she hoped that they would stay far away from this mess she was in. And frankly, she was surprised the Chantry had not yet come calling. Seeker Herzog would be anxious to get her alone in a dark room.

No matter where her thoughts took her, they looped back to Alistair, thus fanning the flame of her indignation. Each minute she endured in the darkness of this cell was a minute she spent wishing she could set Alistair's beard on fire.

So to pass the time, she watched the flickering storm outside and decided to plot her revenge against him. There was the matter of Prince Brandel. What would the Seeker Herzog do should he learn of this. It could be a powerful negotiation tool.

_What am I thinking? I’m not cold-hearted enough to do that_.  Even she did not have the coldness of heart to see through that. Eventually, the storm passed and the sky outside the thin window changed from black to the first blue tinges of dawn.

Exhaustion overcame her, but she fought the urge to sleep. Her thinking had become fuzzy and her eyelids grew heavy, but the dreams were worse here, much worse. Maybe she could still sense the ghosts of the darkspawn that she had slaughtered with Sten, Oghren and Zev on her way up to the roof. She wondered if she had been in this area of the tower before, back when she was someone. It rained that night too. She did not want to relive her battle with the Archdemon and be reminded of the smell the rancid blood and smoke or recall that sickening sense of desperation to put the beast out of its misery. So, she returned her thoughts to Alistair, sneering with bitterness. 

It was still early, as the stale bread and water that represented her breakfast had not yet come, when a guard in a full helm called her to the door. He commanded her to turn around so she could be shackled again. What further humiliations was she to endure? She complied, almost mindlessly, too tired to care. For a half a second, she realized that this was just a run of the mill prison guard, and not a templar. But from the fringes of her mind, she could tell that he was close. No matter how hard he pretended that it was not so, Alistair was still a Grey Warden and she was still able to track him. Her fury simmered again, breaking through the fog of fatigue, causing her hands to shake and rattle the iron bindings. She took a deep breath to compose herself, still unclear where she was being taken. The guard instructed her to step three paces away from the door. Defeated, she obeyed, the door swung open with a shriek and a clank.

At sword point she was directed down the hall. She tried to still her bindings as she walked, to prevent the jangle that interrupted the relative silence of the prison wing. No matter how she positioned her hands, she still managed to draw everyone’s undivided attention. Prisoners leaned out from behind the bars and uttered lewd comments and noises as she trudged by. The most disturbing of the taunts involved the interrogation room. Everyone knew, or at least imagined, what happened to women when they were brought before the interrogator at Fort Drakon.

Her mind went to dark and grim places; but it gave her another point of focus. Despite this distraction, the Warden beacon thrummed in her head even stronger. They were bringing her to him and she was unsure whether this was a good thing or not. She seriously doubted that Alistair would allow anything untoward happen to her while she was in his custody, but insecurity and fear crept in. If he were so certain that she was involved in his son's kidnapping, would he still protect her? Perhaps he would even derive some sick form of pleasure under the guise of justice as he witnessed her torture.

She was directed around a corner and then up a flight of steep stairs. The irons chafed her wrists raw. This particular area of the prison was windowless. Torches guided them past the narrow stone hallways, past the solitary confinement cells. She watched her shadow dance and flicker at her feet, unfettered and free. The guard stopped at a door and rapped with the pommel, saying nothing. It opened immediately. Nuraya gathered her courage and stepped inside.

Inside the cell was a set of table and chairs, as well as shackles and chains that dangled from the ceiling. It left an ill-feeling that curdled the acids in her empty stomach, on top of the rage she was trying to keep from boiling over. She knew the guard who had opened the door was Alistair, and recognized his Warden call better than anyone. She searched inside the helm slits for his eyes, for some sign recognition, a remote gesture of kindness. 

As her escort shut the door, the ensuing puff of air stirred the torch flames. Crimson reflected off the steel helmets. Just as her shackles were removed, Alistair removed his helm. Upon seeing his face, the face that she had grown to trust so deeply and completely, the one she had once fallen in love with, now belonged to the man responsible for a betrayal she could hardly bear.

Without thinking, she lobbed a ball of fire at him. Utter instinct had taken control and she had no recollection of bringing this spell to mind. The guard behind her tackled her to the floor before she could witness the impact. When she looked up, Alistair must have ducked. The effects of her rage had left a charred smear behind him. Only then did she realize she was screaming and calling the King every treasonous name she knew. But she would not allow herself to cry. He would not have the pleasure in seeing that.

At least she had caught him off guard. The first spell failed to release whatever dark feeling had clung heavily in her chest. As she struggled back to her feet, another wave of rage was about to roll onto shore. Determined to cast with accuracy, she clearly visualized the fire spell—the next one, she vowed, would hurt. With just moments until her power ripened, Alistair held out his palm and neutralized her efforts. Immediately, she was drained, helpless and weak. It was as if he threw a bucket of water onto of a campfire, leaving her rage to hiss and smoke and sputter. Reason broke through, reminding her that she was attacking the King of Ferelden, that this could earn her a longer stay in the prison. She withered on the floor.

"Stop!" Alistair shouted, his voice escalating in both volume and intensity, yet there were undertones of uncertainty. "You need to listen! Just calm down!"

She almost laughed out loud at that.

The second guard stepped in front of her, holding his helm under his arm and offered a hand to help her up.

"Eamon?" she cried, incredulously, ignoring the help. He gestured that she sit at the rough table.

"I think both His Majesty and I can overlook your behaviour, given the circumstances," he said in a cool, yet measured tone, as he set the helmet atop the table with a hollow clunk. Nuraya got to her feet, stood her ground and folded her arms in defiance. Her energy slowly returned and she decided to allow it to ripen, and perhaps unleash her wrath when it was less obvious.

Eamon was all business and unfazed by her tantrum. He leaned back in the chair and smiled, in that grandfatherly look she had known before the Blight. "Nuraya, your anger is just, but we had to do this for your own good."

She heard the words, but she continued to stare at both men in disbelief, her temper flaring, her heart still beating in her throat. "My own good?" was all she could manage to utter, with a shrill in her voice that betrayed her feelings.

Alistair pulled out a chair and offered it to her. She furrowed her brow and remained standing. Eamon groaned irritably. Alistair sat, and buried his head in his hands, scrunching his bangs. That was his tell. It never changed. He was nervous, and for a fleeting second she was lulled into the possibility that this ridiculous plan that they had alluded to, was actually true.  

"Bran is safe and is in Highever with the Queen, Ser Ruskin and his wife." Alistair said, a bit more calmly, but muffled from behind his hands.

"So, you found him? What of this plot of mine to kidnap him?" Surely the two were able to deduce that she had not been involved.

"There is no plot, Nuraya," Alistair replied evenly.

"What do you mean?" She squeaked; her mind started to race again. "Why in the Void have you locked me up in here for the past two days? Under what charges am I being held?" At that moment, anger toward the Warden’s and their absence flicked through her thoughts. Clearly, she had no advocates.

"Come and sit, I'll explain everything." Alistair pleaded, this time revealing, his wrinkled brow and a depth of worry in his hazel eyes.

"I’ll do no such thing and you will release me immediately." She wanted to threaten him in some way, to expose the injustice against her, but she could think of no one to turn to. With nothing to lose, no allies to protect or betray, she turned to Eamon. "Do you  _know_ , about Bran?" Her eyes flicked over to watch Alistair's, although he offered her nothing; there was no sign of shock nor betrayal—her revelation was as much of a miss as her first spell. Her anger started to dissipate as her curiosity kicked in, and wondered what explanations would ensue. Then she worried if her last statement was gargantuan faux-pas. 

Eamon crossed his arms over his chest. "Do I know that Bran is a mage? That his grandmother is an elf? Of course I know. I would hope his Majesty would not hide such things from his Chamberlain. Unlike a certain mage I know, who hides details on the whereabouts of a young apostate recently escaped from the Circle."

Connor. He knew. This revelation exposed her even more and to hide behind her anger would only make the current situation worse. The blood drain from her face and a wave of nausea swelled in her belly. She took a seat, biting her bottom lip.

"Is this the true reason for my arrest? Why create such a spectacular lie?" She asked, after taking a moment to collect her racing thoughts.

Eamon folded his hands and leaned forward on the table. The gesture magnified his brevity, while also softening his demeanour. "We are protecting you."

Nuraya quirked an eyebrow and cocked her head. "Go on." So far, this did nothing to appease her foul mood. "Protecting me from who?"

"The Chantry." Alistair said. His elbows were propped on the table and he cracked his knuckles. "Remember that blood mage that Knight-Commander Cullen arrested last week? The one who attacked you in the alley?"

She nodded, but only as an acknowledgement that the memory was quite immediate. How this connected to the events that had brought her into the belly of Fort Drakon remained a mystery.

Alistair continued. "The only way the Denerim templars could get him to talk was to make him tranquil. He reported that he came to the city in the company of a young mage looking for his sister, the Hero. The Chantry wanted to bring you in, question you further on this matter, but you must have a friend in the Knight-Commander because he warned me that he might not have any control over what might happen to you if you were to cooperate. So Eamon and I decided to arrest you... to keep the Chantry's hands off you. You can't hide in the palace anymore. You need to get out of Denerim—you need to leave the country. There are too many in the Palace who see the Chantry as the true voice of the Maker, not as a power vying for dominance over the continent."

She gave Alistair a bit of credit for developing a more sophisticated view of the Chantry. But if Eamon and Alistair had done her some great favour in bringing her here, she was not ready to reciprocate her gratitude. "Why not tell me? Why leave me here like a common criminal for two stinking days?"

"In case the Chantry started to pressure the Landsmeet in granting access to you... I thought if you did not know why..." He groaned and buried his face in his hands. "Look, I’m terribly sorry. It was the best plan that we could come up with in a pinch. We needed time to arrange this, in secret. At sunset, you have to leave Ferelden straight away. There is a ship about to sail; I know Anora is taking it to Weisshaupt. I can help smuggle you on board."

Eamon interrupted. "There were two templars who were found dead in the forest outside the city a few days ago. They were from Kinloch Hold and had been looking for Connor," his voice wavered with worry. "Please, tell me that you are hiding Connor and that he is well. If I could have kept him in Redcliffe I would have ... but the policy on mages is non-negotiable.”

That was the understatement of the age. Instead of dredging up her demons from the past, she looked directly into Eamon's eyes. "He’s in good hands, I assure you. No harm has come to him." She wanted to apologize for all the secrets and for contributing to his worry, but she pursed her lips closed.

"Then I beg you, take him with you. Get him out of Ferelden."

The next hour they spent planning her escape. She had not forgiven either man completely, but she was unwilling to sacrifice her only way out of Ferelden for the chance to demonstrate her anger. They insisted that she return to her cell until nightfall and maintain the ruse. No one at the palace could be trusted, especially in the face of an Inquisitor. They had heard rumours that one had been dispatched and was on his way to the capital. How Alistair and Telari had hid Bran from the gossip mongers and the Chantry for so long, made Nuraya wonder. But then again, Alistair still practiced some of his templar abilities. When they were ready to leave, Alistair returned the shackles to her wrist and stuffed, what felt like a small piece of parchment in her palm, that she hid as she was returned to her cell.

A meal, more befitting her station was waiting for her that filled her belly and momentarily soothed her worries. 

"The interrogator comes this evening." Eamon said from beneath his helmet. The secret was maintained even within the bowels of the prison. The gravity of the situation sent a chill down her spine and the hairs on the back of her neck pricked. A candle was left on her tray, so she waited for Eamon's footsteps to echo down the hall before she spread open the note on her lap.

_Nuraya,_

_My sincerest apologies for this treatment you've had to endure. After all you have done, you hardly deserve that. There is another bit of detail that you need to know that I did not want to share with Eamon. Cullen mentioned that the blood mage was part of the Order of the Dragon and mentioned that the Mother was looking for you. Be careful of Morrigan, Nuraya. The ritual is still our secret and the only thing that I have not shared with Eamon. Fiona believes that you will be able to improve the situation for the mages in Thedas and based on experience, I know you will. I cannot help but wonder that Morrigan somehow knows this. Good luck._

_I shall remain your good friend,_

_Alistair._

_P.S. Speak with Captain Lashley on board **The Good King Maric**. I have left something for you in his care._

She burned the letter after she had read it. Morrigan.

_What could she want with me?_

It was her wish to be forgotten after Alistair had agreed to the ritual. Surely she was of no use to Morrigan? Especially since she attracted all sorts of attention from all the wrong people. With her anger dissipated, she found her eyes begin to flutter as she lie on her bunk.

The clatter of keys woke her from a dreamless sleep. She was groggy when she awoke, making her wonder how long she had slept.  

"The interrogator returns," said Eamon's muffled voice.

This time, he led her down to a chamber in the dungeons. Alistair was not there. She supposed he risked enough sneaking into the tower. Eamon pointed to a satchel in the corner and instructed her to don the disguise. She pulled out a set of Chantry robes.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Eamon ignored her and explained how she would find a passageway that would lead to the port.

"All I ask of you is to send a message once you are safely out of Ferelden. Let me know that Connor is safe. In the letter, state that you are Sister Solona, and thank me for sponsoring your acolyte to learn the Chant. That will tell me that you and he are safe."

"And if you receive nothing?"

"Then I will assume that your message was intercepted. But you have never failed at anything you set your mind to."

She realized that these were his parting words, so she embraced him, like an uncle she never had. "I'll take good care of Connor."

"You always have. Please, tell him that I miss him terribly, that I never wished this life for him."

A small grin appeared on Nuraya's face. "I'll make sure you will get the chance to say that to him in person."

Eamon opened the door to the passage and they parted ways.

**~0oOo0~**

Her disguise was utterly ridiculous. She focused very intently on appearing as normal as possible she made her way to Kalvindir's, folk crossed their arms and bowed reverently as they passed on the street. She hoped that no one would ask her to repeat the _Chant of Light_ as they offered their alms for the Blight orphans. What had been shoved down her throat throughout most of her schooling had been forgotten, and what could not be forgotten was conveniently ignored. As a mage, religious doctrine was no longer her moral compass; she now judged right and wrong on her own. Magic was a gift, to be respected and used only when necessary. Demons were never to be trusted. Somehow, she was to convince the rest of Thedas of this simple truth. 

She picked up her pace, hoping to look like she was on important Chantry business.

_No better way to ruin this disguise than to have to stammer through the Canticle of Benedictions with some pious only-on-Sunday ninny._

She crossed the Drakon River and into Kalvindir's quarter, the seedy part of town. She hid under her hood and avoided eye contact on the busier streets. Her robes smelled musty and were scratchy. She wondered if they were the ones that Leliana had worn when they had first met her in Lothering. The bard refused to allow anyone in the company to sell them, even when they were desperate for coin. Nuraya always wondered what had become of the items they had collected during the Blight. Maybe Alistair had found them and stored them at the palace, thinking that someday that Leliana would want to come and claim them. She doubted that, but was glad that her imagination distracted her from the events of the past few days.

She ducked into the crooked alleyway that led to Kalvindir's, taking a quick glance over both shoulders, checking that she had not been followed. Light glowed at the end—a strange sight. The head of the mage's collective always made sure that headquarters was safely locked and well hidden. A flash illuminated the alley, soon followed by smoke and the acrid smell of burning lyrium. She skulked down the alley, keeping flat against the wall, recalling everything that Zevran had taught her, craning her neck to investigate.

A tangle of shadowy figures danced along the floor and up the wall, a helm and a sword stood out amongst the dark projections. She broke into a cold sweat and took a deep breath to carefully calculate her next move. She already had a way to escape Ferelden, and was not about to squander that chance by blindly storming the room and attacking a group of hunting templars.

Scurrying back to the street, she climbed the trellis of an adjacent building and jumped across the alley to the roof of the mage's collective. Kalvindir had a skylight that allowed his birds to come and go, where she could watch without the risk of being caught. The sound of smashing glass forced her to quicken her step as she negotiated the terracotta tiles, trying not to slip and fall. She made her way up the slope, her legs full of jelly and nerves, so she got to her belly and peered through the sky light. For a moment she questioned her decision become a witness instead of a participant, but the scene below quashed her doubts.

There were two templars sheathing their blades, inspecting a number of bodies that lie scattered on the floor. Nausea overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes and tried to wet her palate, pushing down her rising stomach acids. Most of the dead were mages she had never met, perhaps collateral damage. Movement beside her caught her eye: a small brown sparrow hopped on the rim of the skylight, most likely looking for Kalvindir. She continued to study the situation as the templars conducted their investigation—one used his boot to roll a corpse to his back. It was Kalvindir, splayed lifeless in a pool of blood. She covered her mouth to stifle a scream and then sat up and looked to the sky, breaking into uncontrollable sobs. Afraid the templars might see her, she covered her mouth to stifle her crying. Her stomach lurched violently, as was overcome into a fit of sobs. The bird chirped; surely a sign of mourning as well.

For a second, she smiled, watching the little thing ruffle its feathers. Then, it shuddered and writhed, feathers flicked and grew. Wings bent awkwardly and then a human form uncurled. Nuraya blinked, unsure at what she was witnessing.

"Connor?"

He burst into tears. Shuffling over the tiles, she wrapped her arms around him, giving him the chance to safely fall apart. It was then she realized that he was not wearing a stitch of clothing. While on the one hand, she was overwhelmingly relieved that he had survived the attack, but on the other, how she was going to get a naked mage on board a ship was a complication she was not prepared for. He shivered in the cold night air and she rubbed her hand down the bumps of his spine, hoping it might warm him. When his sobbing spasms had calmed, he backed away from her, positioning himself in such a way so as to maintain his dignity.

"What happened, Connor?" She asked.

"Briony brought a group of mages to the Collective." He inhaled and shook, staring out into space, imagining the horror that he had witnessed. "They must have tricked her." To think otherwise would have been too painful for that moment.

Nuraya scanned the floor for her as Connor continued. "She left before anything happened. I don't think she could live with herself if she knew... After she left the mages questioned Kalvindir. They asked him where you were—but Kalvindir wouldn’t tell them. I was in bed when they attacked.  When the fighting started, I escaped before anyone knew I was there. Watched the whole thing from up here. They killed him, Nuraya, I saw it all" He fell apart again, tears filling his eyes and then down his cheeks.

"And what about the templars?" They had already left Kalvindir’s hovel, and she saw them walk in the direction of the Pearl.

"They just showed up. They tried to reason with them, suggested that they could go with them and they wouldn't get hurt. But the blood mages wouldn't listen, they conjured demons."

"The templars must have followed them here." She inhaled deeply and caught another glance of Kalvindir's lifeless form on the floor. "The templars turned Revik tranquil. He confessed everything he knew—perhaps where the blood mages were hiding." She was about to tell Connor about her ordeal but thought better of it. She wanted to comfort him. "There is a ship in the harbour waiting for us, we're leaving Ferelden. Now, how shall we get you onboard... or at least get you something to wear first?"

Connor looked down quickly. "I'd go down, but I don't want to see him like that." His eyes were wide and full of sorrow. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and tried to smile through the tears. "I can meet you at the docks, so long as you have some clothes waiting for me."

"How long can you stay as a bird?"

"Long enough."

"Then meet me by  _The Good King Maric._ " She turned around, offering Connor some privacy and when she looked over her shoulder he was gone.

**~0oOo0~**

Kalvindir's face was pale, white as milk. She traced the back of her hand down his cheek tenderly; it was cold. A thin trail of blood had escaped the corner of his mouth and had dribbled across a cheek and to the floor. He had done so much for her, for Connor. He did not deserve to die like this. She should have been there to help him. She could have held Alistair indirectly responsible, but she did not allow her thinking to go there. The Order of the Dragon, Morrigan’s Order, was willing to kill to get to her. 

"I'm so sorry, old friend." She pulled a blanket from a nearby chair and covered his body, offering him a bit more dignity. Upon seeing the outline of his face from beneath the blanket, she was overwhelmed with tears again, and stood over him for a moment, considering her options. This was his modest funeral. Word would spread quickly amongst the Denerim apostates, and a new organization would rise. But this one had come to an end, like so many other good mages.

She searched the hovel and found a large leather pack on the back of a chair and proceeded to stuff it with supplies that she thought she might need: lyrium, healing potions, poultices, salves and balms of all flavour and purpose, and not to mention the clothing Connor last wore when he was a about to go to bed in his little room, before the Blood Mages came.

From the mantle, she took his tobacco box and pipe, and in the corner she took his staff. She held it out and studied it for a moment, admiring the craftsmanship, trying to decipher the runes that were incised on the shaft. It was topped with a rough crystal, of emerald, aquamarine and amber. She quickly concocted a plausible story that she had confiscated the items, should anyone inquire as to why a Chantry sister might be in possession of a mage's staff.

Carefully stepping around Kalvindir's remains, she took inventory of the room again and thought of his contagious laugh, how he was so patient and understanding with Connor, his gentle demeanour and love of little birds. He never spoke of how he had arrived in Denerim and what circumstances might have brought him. Like all mages, he most likely escaped from a Circle or ran away from home as a boy. She always imagined that he had come from the Donarks, an area far north of the Anderfels, but he never confirmed this. She wished she knew, as there were so many funerary practices throughout Thedas. She wanted to offer him the one that suited his him best.

Kalvindir would have a funeral fit for a mage. She was not going to leave the hovel for Blood Mages to occupy, or for templars to ransack and search. The Mages Collective would rebuild in spirit and in reality, but they would have to start from scratch. It would be a small setback, but she had no doubt that they would.

At the door, she raised both hands dramatically. A whirlwind of fire spun around the room, igniting everything in its path. She watched his shroud ignite, the furniture dance with long licks of flame and a billowing plume of smoke blossom on the ceiling. When the air became too hot and thick with smoke, she smiled fondly at Kalvindir and the mage's collective and left. 


	34. Kessler

Varric,

Better get yourself a drink, old friend. Oh, how silly of me. Has it really been that long? Of course, you already have one. What was I thinking? In that case, I hope it’s something strong. Yeah, it’s going to be one of _those_ letters. I wish I was sitting across from you, laughing out loud at your stupid jokes. I could use a good laugh right about now.

So, first thing is first. Let’s deal with the big white bronto in the room. I’m sorry I just upped and left without so much of a good-bye. It was a shitty thing to do, but I hope, in light of the circumstances that contributed to my sudden departure, that my leaving was not construed as anything more than self-preservation and the protection of those who mean the most to me. Just a second, I have to refill my glass—I’m not used to this funny little thing called honesty. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I had better make that a double, just in case the feeling decides to return.

I don’t even know where to start. (That must mean I need a refill.) I’m assuming that you’ve already been questioned. No doubt the Chantry has decided to pay you a visit. What I would have given to be a fly on the wall for that conversation! How did you spin  _that_ tale? Who else would have sought you out for information? Let me think… Has the office of the Viscount been poking about, looking for its great Champion? Has a new Viscount even been elected or has a puppet from Orlais been installed? Actually, it wouldn’t shock me to learn that they elected that smarmy Knight-Captain Cullen as both Commander and Viscount. (I swear I saw him give googly eyes to Seneschal Bran at the De Launcet’s Satinalia ball last year. Don’t you remember the one where I was forced into that ridiculous velvet doublet? Thank the maker you and Isabela showed up to drag me back to Lowtown.)

And speaking of the Chantry, if you see Carver, tell him he can go straight to the Void. I’ll never forget that pathetic look on his face when he and Cullen  _finally_ decided that Stannard was bat-shite crazy. So much could have been prevented had they seen reason months, even weeks earlier. Let’s just thank little brother’s stubbornness and self-righteousness. Okay, he is not responsible for what happened to the Chantry, but he was certainly part of the problem. He chose  _them_ over me. He betrayed all that my family stood for. Anyway, the rum must be strong. I realize I’ve started ranting. 

So how is Daisy? Did she stay in Kirkwall? Course, where would she be off to, not like the Dalish would want to see her around again, right? Did Fenris decide to grind his axe with another mage? (Sounds like a double entendre—sounds like something you’d say!  Just pretend I wrote that on purpose, double meaning included) Of course there is Sebastian, not that I give a nug’s ass about him either, although I’m sure I’m at the top of his shit list as well. Didn’t he threaten to march an army from Starkhaven through Kirkwall, when he learned that I let Anders go? Did that happen yet? Didn’t think so.

Be sure to send my warm regards to Aveline of course, if she hasn’t decided that I am the worst thing to hit Kirkwall since… since when? Since the Qunari invasion? Since Archon Issar announced that the city would become the heart of the Tevinter slave trade? Her support was always tenuous at best, born of her stubborn sense of obligation, and I know it brought her great pains to stand with me at the Gallows that day. Of course this is a discussion I ought to have with her myself. I suppose you might mention that I’m thinking of her, and see if she slaps you across the face. Please let me know if that’s her response, and I’ll be sure to avoid her altogether.

‘Bela’s ship has sailed as well. And that is all I am going to say about that. What is this, a fucking confessional?

Saved the best for last, of course. The entire reason why I have gone into hiding. Good ol’ Blondie. Here is something you can stick in your hat for a rainy day. Oh, that’s right. You don’t wear hats. I’d suggest that you could stick it in your coat, but I’d be afraid it would get tangled in all that chest hair. What’s that, you say? My point? Fuck, you’re impatient! Yeah, Blondie. Heard that he is still up to no good. (Surprised?) Not sure what that means exactly, but according to a reliable source, he’s ended up in Tevinter and is working with some Fereldan swamp witch. Now that I’ve have put that in writing, it sounds absolutely terrifying, and I am beginning to question whether I should step within ten feet of the Imperium (But you know how much I love the impossible). Unfortunately, I’m short on details, so if the Seekers come knocking, tell them that I’ve got everything under control. I’ve made some decent progress and I should be able to wrap my fingers around his scrawny little neck within a matter of weeks. They need not worry and can go back to Chanting.

It’s driving you crazy. I know, I know. I still haven’t told you a thing. But let me warn you, what I’ve learned will make the hairs on your chest stand on end. I wish I could tell you in person, I wish I could be the one pouring drinks. But, since levity is also on the menu this evening, I have to admit that I’m unsure when our paths will cross next. Kirkwall isn’t exactly on my agenda and I don’t know if it will ever be. Regardless, you do deserve to know what I’ve been up to, because you would have stuck by me. You and that minx Bianca would have followed me to the ends of Thedas.

So, I’ve replaced the venerable Varric Tethras and his curvaceous beauty, Bianca, with a couple of Orlesians. Yeah, you heard me.  _Orlesians_ . Not one, but two of them! It all started in a Nessum brothel… (You couldn’t have come up with a better segue, yeah, admit it!) Which reminds me, if you ever happen upon the Wounded Axe, ask Hagen about Magalie. Don’t mention knowing Arlen Greer, a sellsword from Tantervale if you know what is good for you. And for the love of the Maker, do not (I repeat) do not touch the Vipers with a ten foot barge pole. So there I was, curled up with Shasta enjoying the warm Nevarran backwater piss they call ale, just minding my own business and these two dandies waltz in to the Axe. They had run into some Darkspawn in Tylus Canyon, but I overheard them talking about the Hero of Ferelden and how they had to track her down.

Of course, having nothing better to do and with nothing but time on my hands, I decide to stick my nose into their business. (Sound at all familiar? Yes, I can see that smug look on your face.) Turns out, I wasn’t the only one with a passing interest in these two. A bunch of Seekers picked them up. (Cassandra Pentaghast ring a bell?) Of course they were looking for me as well. That is obvious. But why the Orlesians…that was the better question. So I broke them out of custody (nothing too complicated), ended up in Trevis and then made our way to Nevarra City where we picked up a little something from the National Library. These aren’t just any run of the mill Orlesians. Picture this: a scholar with a serious attitude problem, righteous indignation, an insatiable ego and a Templar past, with an Orlesian accent that would put any noble to shame. His assistant makes up for most of the professor’s character flaws (which I find amusing most of the time). He’s a quick-witted elf, not as annoying as the professor, but is tolerable as far as travelling companions go. Both have a thing for hats. Hats, Varric!  _Hats_ .

There isn’t enough parchment in Thedas to describe the mess we have suddenly found ourselves in (all under the guise of “academic” research.) The professor would kill me if he learned I put what he has found in a letter. But I think he is quite right—what we’ve stumbled upon would earn us a one-way ticket to stand before the Grand Inquisitor. We might even get to hang around for a while—with rope necklaces.  Let’s just say that this information is  _juicy_ , my fine friend. Juicy enough for me to want to remain involved. What have I got to lose? Since the Chantry wants to string me up by the balls, I might as well dig up some dirt on them in return. Besides, I have a feeling that all roads eventually lead to Blondie. Just a hunch.

This is the first time in…Weeks? Months? that I have had the chance to actually sit down (with a good drink) and write this. You’d never believe where in the Void I am!

Funny story. So, the two Orlesians and I finally made it to Ferelden. Finally! Took us bloody long enough. Once we landed in Jader, the cranky professor decides that he is going to Denerim, come darkspawn or dragons. Of course, earlier that week we had received some information to head for a small village just west of Gwaren. (Dungarven is so small that I had never heard of it.) We had heard that this is where the Hero of Ferelden lives. I find it hard to believe that the mage who killed an Archdemon and worked through Ferelden’s political cesspool decided to fall into relative obscurity, as a country healer no less.

Of course, Professor Contrary decides that his research in Denerim is now the priority…(my stubborn streak absolutely pales in comparison!). Tassilo (the assistant), ever the sensible one (must be the elf in him) and I made our way to Dungarven, while Saunière fucked off to Denerim.

To make a long story short, which, I am not very good at, for the rum is too smooth and the ink wants to flow freely from my quill. Bear with me, my friend. I am getting to a point here. So we arrive in Dungarven last night to find out that the Hero is in Denerim. Perhaps it has become clear as to why I have taken to drinking. Here I sit in her empty clinic, knowing I have another long journey on foot ahead of me to that stink hole of a Capital. (I was only there once as a child and all I remember is that is smelled so much worse than Lothering.)

Of course, “she” is somewhat of a celebrity here— _everyone_ bloody knows her. All you have to do is mumble her name and someone has some story about how  _wonderful_ and  _caring_ she is, how they don’t know how they are going to get along without her. If I hear another story about how she saved so-and-so’s life from a bout of intestinal parasites, I think I might just… rant. (Like I am now). And please spare me the honorifics… Lady Grey, Miss Nuraya, Lady this, Lady Kiss My Ass.

Turns out good ol’ uncle Gamlen has become of use to me. (Didn’t I once suggest that he was as useful as tits on a Genlock? I still stand by that assessment, but I have learned that on rare occasions, one’s relations can get one out of a quick pinch.) You can tell Gamlen I hope he continues to rot in his Lowtown slum by the way. (I bet you are feeling somewhat relieved that in essence nothing has changed with me).

The townsfolk were somewhat suspicious of two strangers breezing into town during a rainstorm, but once they learned that mother was an Amell, we were as good as gold. The Amell name still holds some currency in these parts. For once, fortune has smiled in my favor. Turns out that Gamlen Amell is a distant cousin of the Hero’s father. We worked it out over dinner, but I am sure the details of my family tree are of little interest to you.

Maldwyn (the Hero’s pop) has put up my companion and I in her clinic. Turns out the Chantry has been running things since she left town (and not too well if you listen to all the complaining!), so there was some extra room to accommodate the new boys in town. And here I sit at her desk, drink in hand with a stack of parchment I intend on filling. I’ve decided to send you a tome that will rival Anders’ Manifesto. (Which I used to start the fire that cooked my last breakfast in the Hawke estate.)

Speaking of which. While I assume that you are at the Hanged Man, I hope you have moved in to my old place. Who else will? For Maker’s sakes, don’t leave it to Gamlen. (Might as well invite Daisy as well if she still insists on living in her Alienage closet.) I’m sure Sandal and Bodhan won’t mind if they have not already left for Val Royeaux.

And with that, I have worn my last quill down to nothing and it appears that I am almost out of ink. I will bid you adieu. (Please save me Varric, the Orlesian is rubbing off!). I hope our paths cross soon, and if they don’t, I will come and find you, when the dust finally settles. You have my word.

Your friend,

Kess

~0oOo0~

He waved the parchment he had just signed in front of the candle, hoping to dry the ink a little quicker. His scrawling penmanship was a challenge to read at the best of times, but with two empty bottles of Rivaini rum beside him, his writing would be nigh impossible to read. But not for Varric he thought, curling up the corner of his mouth as he pictured the dwarf with his foot on the table, furrowing his brow as he deciphered the contents of the letter. 

Kessler hiccupped, swirled what was left in the bottom of the tumbler and took a final swallow, savoring the intensity of the rum as it warmed his throat. The candle had nearly burned to the base and a shiny puddle of wax had pooled on the top of the desk.  He straightened his posture, working out the kinks that had formed over the course of the evening, wove his fingers together and tucked them behind his head, assessing the Hero’s belongings. Part of him regretted expressing such a strong opinion about her in his letter, but in truth he was annoyed at the way the people of Dungarven fawned over her. He was quite certain that her ego would rival the professor’s. He was not sure he was in the mood for another self-righteous perfectionist in his company. The whole idea made becoming tranquil seem like the better option. Her desk did not support this theory, however. Her private residence was modest and understated. Practical might be the better way to explain it.

It would have been nice to have been treated with the same respect in Kirkwall. Instead he had been run out of town, and had become nothing more than a pariah—a rabble-rousing irritant. Before he allowed the dark memories of his recent past foul his contented numbness, a small wooden box drew his curiosity. The lid was intricately carved with a griffon crest, inlaid with lapis lazuli and silver. Maybe this was a gift from the Wardens? He flipped it open and poked inside. The act felt a little like a violation of this stranger’s privacy, however, the rum had wrapped him in a fuzzy blanket of sorts and had hushed the sense that should have told him to stop. The box was lined in blue velvet and cushioned a handful of trinkets. The only value would be the meaning that she had attached to them: a small pendant that contained a dark liquid, a dried rose and a letter.

Tentatively, he pried open the folds of paper and quickly scanned its contents. He felt naughty, but relished the sensation, as it reminded him of Isabela. She was notorious at encouraging him into minor trouble, an expert at deflecting blame while maintaining her smug veneer of innocence. Returning to the letter, he saw that it was addressed to Nuraya, from Alistair. Kess realized that it was the note that originally had called her to Denerim. He found the missive’s lack of formality quite curious—there were no titles and styles, no stiff and formal language. The King addressed himself and the recipient by first name. The rumours must have been true about them being lovers, he concluded.  He read it over again, looking for some hint that the King was calling upon his mistress, but the fact that he had mentioned the Queen put that theory in doubt. What trouble now brewed in Denerim that the King would involve a free mage who wished for obscurity? Why would a married Regent summon a lover from his not-so-distant past? It was the sort of mystery that appealed to Kessler. It involved politics of the highest order along with a dash of sex. Isabela grinned fiendishly in his mind’s eye.

From behind, someone cleared their throat. Startled, he snapped the lid on the box a little too forcefully. 

“Looking for something?” Tassilo asked. His hands were folded behind his back and he had the distinct look of condescension painted on his face.

Kess steadied himself on the back of the chair upon realizing that his balance was unexpectedly off. 

“Sealing wax. And a seal. I wrote a letter.” He waved the parchment, causing the candle to flicker and the shadows in the room to dance.

Tassilo tapped his boot on the floor. Kessler was not in the mood for a responsible chaperone. Try as he might, he was unable to get the elf drunk. And he tried in earnest a few hours ago. Discouraged, he had left Tassilo to fend for himself at the Winking Moon, in the company of Maldwyn Amell and his apprentice Geordie when he realized that no one was ordering beverages in the quantity that he desired. Kess feigned exhaustion and excused himself from their polite discussion and sought out a dark place with a healthy supply of rum. He found himself back at the Healer’s cottage, feeling altogether defeated and perhaps even a little homesick (if he were willing to admit such vulnerabilities). Writing the letter had been cathartic enough, but it required far more rum than he expected. He had not been this drunk in a very long time. Not since Kirkwall. Not since Varric and Isabela dared him that one night a few weeks before the Chantry went boom.

Tassilo sighed loudly and sauntered to the desk, pointing to a small tray adjacent to the box. There sat a stick of cherry red sealing wax. Kessler carefully folded his letter and melted the wax in the candle, focusing on keeping his arm steady. With a wavering hand, he allowed a shiny splotch fall onto the parchment. Tassilo offered his university ring, but Kessler waved it away, opting instead for the Hero’s seal.

This will confuse him,” he grinned, pressing the seal into the soft wax.

“Who?” Tassilo started to tidy the scraps of paper and worn quills.

“Old friend of mine. Someone who deserves an explanation. Mind passing me that bottle of rum over there?”

Tassilo took a poker and stirred the fire, coaxing the dying embers back to life with some extra wood. Wind and rain rattled the windows. “We don’t want to take advantage of our host’s hospitality. I suggest you go straight to bed.”

“You’re not my fucking mother.”

Tassilo stood and brushed off his breeches with a blank, unfazed expression. “As your only travelling companion, it is my sworn duty to ensure that you are on your best behaviour. You and I are lucky to have a roof over our heads tonight. You are drunk. Sleep it off.” He waved his hands towards the Hero’s bed.

Kessler burst out laughing at the command. He could not help it. He had not heard someone speak to him in that tone since he was a teenager. On second thought, Aveline had often chastised him when she would come to collect him at the Hanged Man at dawn, but he was always too drunk to remember exactly what she would say. And just like he had done with Aveline, he stood to demonstrate that he was perfectly fine. The room started to spin. He sat down again, but misjudged the position of the chair and slipped off the edge, catching himself before he was able to further humiliate himself. It was a close call, but affirmed Tassilo’s assessment. And if there was anything Kessler Hawke hated more than looking clumsy, it was being proven wrong.

He perched himself up on his elbow and grinned. “Will you tuck me in?”

“Andraste have mercy upon us both.” Tassilo rolled his eyes and helped up Kess, positioning himself under his left arm.

Kess leaned on his companion, fully realizing just how short Tassilo was and how drunk he was. Together they shuffled to the bed. Tassilo dropped him mercilessly on the bed and grumbled. “Why must the drunks always claim the mattress?”

Flopping back, he kicked off his boots and tried to ride out the torrential swells that filled his head. He grabbed the pillow and tossed it on the floor, then slipped off and curled up.

“What exactly are you doing?” Tassilo asked.

Hawke squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to stop the room from whirling. “Pass me my cloak. Good night Tassilo. Sweet dreams.” He was fading fast. Moments before he finally passed out, he felt the heaviness of his leather cloak settle atop of him. And then he slipped into an empty, spinning stupor.

~0oOo0~

Sunlight streamed from the window and stabbed Kessler in the eye. He covered his face with the crook of his arm and rolled onto his side, groaning. He missed his mansion in Hightown. He missed having servants dote on his every need. He missed his dog.  Shasta would have licked his cheek and consoled him. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms, hoping to remove the ache that settled behind them. With great effort he sat up, rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. To say that he felt awful would have been an understatement. The sound of a shutting door interrupted his self-induced misery.

“Good. You’re finally up.” Tassilo passed him a hot cup of tea which he accepted gratefully, still squinting in the painfully bright light.

Hawke slurped the hot brew and then cleared his throat. “Did we come up with some sort of plan last night?” He stared through the steam and wondered if a hint of brandy might be nice. His stomach roiled in response.

“No. But we could not ask for a finer day. I suggest we make use of it.”

A goal was precisely what his hangover needed, but Kess was in no shape for a long journey north—especially with the sun so bright and warm. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he caught the strap of his backpack with his foot and dragged it toward him. With a grumble and a loud sigh, signalling his disapproval of the plan, he sorted what little he had. When he was done, he rubbed his temples. The massage had little effect. He had the distinct feeling of being watched.

“Aren’t you a mage?”

It was an odd question; one that Kess was not expecting. The topic of magic did not often get raised in the company of the professor and his assistant. He assumed it had something to do with them being Orlesian and culturally predisposed to having haughty opinions on magic. 

Rubbing the back of his neck, he nodded. “Your point? Someone in need of an apostate?”

“Why not heal yourself? Surely a mage can cure a simple hangover.”

Hawke chuckled. “I don’t heal. Not part of my…  _thing_ …” Surely the Hero had some elfroot lying about. This was a clinic after all.

Tassilo opened the door to leave and stiffened when he saw the elderly smith at the door, about to knock. Apologetic, he stepped aside, greeting him warmly.

“We were about to bid our farewells, Messere Amell. ‘Tis such a fine day that we would be amiss not to use it to our advantage.”

Maldwyn Amell was slightly hunched and carried a large parcel wrapped in leather. He set it on the end of the bed next to Hawke and wandered over to the desk. Gingerly, he traced a finger over the wooden box as he strode past. He looked up at Kess, his ice blue eyes twinkling. Their shared lineage was never more apparent.

“Glad to see that you’re still in one piece, Laddie.” He said to Kess with a wink. “Have not been in need for that quantity of Rivaini rum in quite some time. You’ve left an indelible mark on the Winking Moon. A man of true legend.”

Kess groped for the right thing to say. Should he return the jest? Or would an apology be more appropriate?

Tassilo bowed slightly. “Your kindness and generosity are without equal, Messere. We have journeyed long. Let us not impose upon you any further.” He shot Kess a look as if to remind him to remain on his best behaviour.

“Seems that the Amells are attracted to high drama!” Maldwyn chided, stroking his beard as he continued to address Kessler. “Your Orlesian friend here told me a little of why you’re looking for my daughter.”

If there was anything Kess learned about daughters, it was to never piss off their fathers. And he could only guess what fanciful tale Tassilo might have spun.  _Surely not the truth?_

Maldwyn seemed to read Kess’ mind and eschewed his worry with a wave of his hands. “I am no stranger to the sort of trouble a mage can find himself in … See all this white hair?” He pointed to his head with a grin. “I got all that from listening to Nuraya’s stories, I did. Grey Wardens and Mages make interesting bedfellows don’t they? And betweens you and me, I still haven’t figured out how she or the King managed to escape the top of Fort Drakon alive. But alas, I suspect my little girl has her own secrets, doesn’t she?” The corners of his eyes crinkled, reminding Kessler of his grandfather. 

“We believe your daughter has information vital to Professor Saunière’s research. We will see that she does not come to any harm.” Tassilo stated.

“Harm?” Maldwyn chuckled again. “If I were youse, I’d be worried at what my daughter might do if what you tell me is but aught a ruse. But, I like to think of myself as a good judge of character. And  _you’re_ a spitting image of Malcolm…”

The last comment cut right through the hangover and into Kessler’s heart, causing it to ache more than his head. Often Kessler wondered if he would be in his current predicament had his father not died. Of course he wouldn’t. His father’s gravelly voice echoed in the back of his mind: _Magic must always be used in secret and to serve_. Surely, there would be no fatherly pride had he learned that the Champion made his name by blatantly disregarding his first bit of advice.  Using magic with little discretion was what seemed to endear Kessler Hawke to most citizens in Kirkwall. He liked to side with those who always seemed to receive the shitty end of the stick, and that constantly raised eyebrows. Even he was unsure, at times, where his loyalties lie. ‘You’re as slippery as a fish but clever as a fox,’ Varric used to say.

“You knew my father?” he managed to say.

Maldwyn found a footstool nearest the hearth and slowly sat upon it. He straightened his legs and crossed them at the ankle. “Aye! Who do you think helped him settle in Lothering? I said to Leandra, you best be wary of this one… a no stranger to trouble this one is! ‘Tis a long tale really. But Leandra and I were cousins, and one just does not turn a blind eye to their relations.”

Kessler huffed, thinking of Carver.

“But as the years passed, I was convinced that Malcolm was a good fit for Lea… I think Lothering calmed him down a bit.”

“How come I don’t remember you?”

Maldwyn cleared his throat. “I stayed my distance as was agreed upon. I had troubles of my own, did not want to rouse any more attention than needed. Your father kept to himself, but in every town there is a Chantry, and every Chantry has a templar.” He looked mournfully at the empty desk.

“When was she taken to the Circle?” Hawke asked, understanding how long his fortune had held out, and perhaps how his current circumstance was nothing more than an inevitability. Reality must eventually catch up with all mages.

“She was just a wee lass, barely able to understand what was happening to her.  I didn’t dare return to Lothering after she was taken. Templars keep an eye on the family they do… we all know magic travels in families. Yours I understand being particularly strong with it. I thought Lea would be safer without me around.”

With a heavy heart, Kess nodded.

The old smith rose from his stool with some effort, shuffled to the bed and started to unwrap the leather parcel.

“My Nuraya mentioned some forsaken plan of how she would be called upon to help the mages again. ‘Course, I paid little heed. Once she settled here after the Blight I got a little too accustomed to her being around. With every day that passed, I believed that the chance that she would be taken away again grew less and less.”

He flipped the parcel open and a sword and a couple of finely crafted daggers clinked together and glimmered in the sunlight. Maldwyn crossed his arms and smiled, gesturing to both his guests to get a better look.

Kessler picked up the sword, elegant and sharp, and finely balanced. The hilt was carved with images griffons and magic in lapis and silver—the detail was precise and stunning. He was impressed. It would shame the professor’s sword, and that was no meagre weapon.

Maldwyn hovered his finger just above where the fuller travelled the blade’s edge. “Had to find just the right sort to fold lyrium into that… wasn’t easy. It was meant for Nuraya on her name day, but it’s almost a certainty that she won’t be here to celebrate it.”

“A spellweaver sword then?” Kessler held out the blade and eyed the precision craftsmanship. “Don’t find many of those.” He touched the blade to his forehead and thought of the cold. Feathery tendrils of frost curled down the silver edge and fell to floor. “Impressive. A fine gift. I shall be honored to present it to her for you.”

“Please, Serah Tassilo. Take these daggers. Let them keep you from harm’s way. Part of me feels a little less troubled that she will have companions again to travel with. Please send her all my love.”

Kessler slipped the blade in an equally intricate scabbard, then collected the sealed letter that he had finished the night before. For a moment, he hesitated, trying to recollect everything that he had written, hoping that it was within the realm of appropriate. “I only ask of one last thing. Please see that this letter gets to an old friend of mine.”

With fingers blackened from years of hard work, the smith held up the thick letter and squinted, reading the address. “Kirkwall eh? You sure you want to stir that pot, laddie?”

“I’m afraid that it already has. I have a feeling this contact of mine will someday be of service to my company again. Best we call upon him now.”

“You best take care laddie. In my experience, wherever there are templars—”

“There is trouble. Yes I am well aware of that. Serah. As you said yourself, the Amells are no stranger to it.” 


End file.
